


Who We Are Beneath The Masks

by KnockKnock7



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Rated For Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnockKnock7/pseuds/KnockKnock7
Summary: Sometimes, Arthur thinks a mask is all he is.And all he'll ever be.
Relationships: Arthur & Camelot, Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter One

Author's Note: No copyright infringement intended.

He didn't mean to but...but, the blood still seeps out of the wound and around the dagger implanted in his chest regardless of his intentions.

“Arthur?”

His breathing comes in short and ragged breaths; each inhale refuses to take in enough air, as if that dagger is stealing it all before it can give him what he so desperately needs. His body is shaking; he thinks he might just fall apart, disappear into nothing.

It would be far more than he deserves.

“Arthur, it's okay. Just breathe, alright?” Merlin's voice is calm, so calm and why is he so calm? Now? When the whole world is crashing down around them and that dagger and all that blood is staring at him?

“Deep breaths. In and out. Come on, Sire, just breathe with me.”

Arthur can feel it, the pain. The betrayal hurts more than the dagger, more than the hole where there should just be flesh, more than the air refusing to reach frozen lungs; it hurts more than _anything_.

“In, Arthur, breathe in!”

And Arthur does, God help him, but he does. He listens to Merlin's steady voice, an anchor just as he always has been. A tether to a world Arthur can see and yet doesn't quite live in. But he can, if he only listens to that voice. He's never listened to it enough, only for a moment then he casts it aside. And still, _still_ Merlin offers his voice, his hand, his friendship to a king that has never deserved it in the first place.

But Arthur listens to that voice now and he breathes in and out. He breathes with Merlin until the black spots dancing around his vision disappear, until the air finally pushes past that dagger and into his lungs that crave it so much, until the ice seems to thaw just a bit.

“Good, Arthur. Just keep breathing, alright? In and out. And in again. That's right,” Arthur draws in another deep breath, his eyes closed, clinging to that voice as if it alone could save him.

He thinks it might be.

But when he opens his eyes, he sees...

That dagger. And blood creeping past it. And he sees red once more and the air suddenly doesn't seem to be enough yet again.

“No, Arthur! No, no, Sire, stay with me!” Merlin cries and his voice is no longer quite as strong, quite as clear as if he is giving up on Arthur.

Arthur understands, deserves it even but the thought leaves him more breathless, even colder, in far more pain than that dagger can ever cause.

“Arthur!” The yell gets his attention—because Merlin is still talking, still throwing him that lifeline, still needs something from him.

And Arthur owes it to him to listen.

“Alright. I need you to breathe, alright?” A small chuckle that holds no mirth, “Please, Arthur, just...close your eyes and breathe. Just listen to my voice.”

Arthur's eyes slide closed of their own accord and he tries, he tries for Merlin, but all he can see is that blade sticking out of his chest. He can still feel the cold steel as it slides through flesh and bone. Still smell the blood. Still taste the metallic tang in the air.

“Arthur, everything is fine. There's nothing wrong right now. You're fine.” He's not, he is most definitely not fine. Not with that cursed dagger, not with that blood spurting out and soaking his shirt, not without being able to draw in enough air. But Merlin's still talking, and Arthur has to listen. “There's no dagger. No blood. No pain. It's all okay.”

The words are a lie, Arthur _knows_ this. This is not all in his head, he would not have imagined this _nightmare_ so vividly.

And there's the dagger of course. It's not in his boot where it should be hidden out of sight; it's in his chest and there's nothing Merlin can say that will change that.

“Arthur, please listen to me!” And these words, yes, yes Arthur has to listen. Because Merlin sounds desperate now and his voice, while weak, is tinged with that confusing concern and so much determination.

If there is no dagger, why would he be desperate? And if it's all in Arthur's head how does Merlin even know about it?

“Arthur, please? I need you—I need you to please listen to me?” Merlin begs.

Arthur squeezes his eyes closed, tries to breathe, tries to forget.

“Alright, good,” Merlin says again, “Remember this is just another normal day, no worries. You think you can do that?”

No, no Arthur can't. Because this is all real. But...Merlin is asking him to do this—no, Merlin _needs_ him to do this, so he nods even though he really can't.

“Good, good. Just...I need you to go to Gaius' chambers. And get my bag—my healer's bag. And some water. Call for a bath if you would.” A bath? No, Arthur can't possibly go out there and pretend that everything is fine, and talk to people, and order a bath like this is an ordinary day when it is quite possibly the worst day of all, no, he can't do this! “Arthur, please will you do this for me?”

A nod, because it's Merlin, so of course Arthur will. Somehow. Even though it's wrong, all wrong.

“Okay, and this...this is important, Arthur...” Merlin takes a fortifying breath before he continues, “Don't tell anyone—not even Gaius.”

Arthur shakes his head, something akin to a whimper slipping past his frozen lips.

“It's important, Arthur. Nothing is wrong, nothing at all.”

“I can't,” he whispers, ashamed and scared—the story of his life.

“You can, Arthur,” Merlin refutes, always so contrary, “you're the king, you can do whatever you want.”

Another shake of his head. Another breath in that doesn't fill him up.

“Arthur, you can do this. I believe in you.”

And oh, that hurts. _Please don't_ , he wants to beg, _please just give up on me already!_ But this is Merlin and he never will.

So... Arthur stands on shaking feet, he stumbles, catches himself on the wall.

“Sire, please it's important.”

Another shaking step. He keeps his eyes closed lest he lose what little strength Merlin's voice has given him.

“Arthur? Remember to breathe.”

Under normal circumstances it takes six steps to the door, but these are anything but normal. It takes Arthur eleven to reach it. His hand clutches the handle, shaking. Too much, far too much.

Everything is fine.

Arthur takes a deep breath and dons his kingly mask. The mask he created while watching hundreds of people being slaughtered. The mask he perfected when he had to stand by and let knight after knight die for him. The mask he wore while his father poisoned himself with hatred and his sister slipped into madness.

He is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot. And he can do this.

Merlin said he could.

He opens the door and steps out, leaving Merlin with a dagger in his chest, bleeding out alone.


	2. Chapter Two

His legs are still shaking, his body still feels like he's made of shattering glass instead of bone and muscle but Arthur has been taught to shield his emotions, how to hide behind false confidence, how to be strong when everything is falling apart, so he walks steadily, his head up, his hands still.

Arthur still can't breathe.

He catches the first servant he sees and orders a bath, his voice calm even if it is quieter than usual. George doesn't question the order; doesn't ask why he hadn't ordered his own manservant. He may question internally but he's too dutiful to ever voice those thoughts and for the first time Arthur can only be grateful.

He continues on. The physician's chambers are so far away from his rooms, up too many stairs and Arthur feels every step. It takes all his willpower to keep going.

He can't think about his dagger. Arthur knows every nook and scratch and groove of that blade. Knows the weight and how to wield it. But he can't think about the way he had stabbed it into Merlin's chest, the way it had so easily sliced through skin and muscle alike, so easily embedded itself into the soft flesh.

So easily killing his friend.

He can't think about Merlin, slumped on the ground, bleeding out, dying—no, Arthur can't think about it, not if he wants to keep walking.

One step forward. A breath in, another step, a breath out. Because Merlin told him to keep breathing.

It takes an eternity to reach Gaius' chambers. He wonders, though he tries not to, how much blood Merlin has dripped out while Arthur has slowly, oh so slowly made his way forward.

A breath in.

He doesn't knock when he reaches Gaius' chambers because he never does, just barges in.

“Sire?” Gaius exclaims, his eyes scouring Arthur's body looking for the injury. He wouldn't find any.

“Gaius,” Arthur acknowledges then strides past him. He gets to Merlin's door before the physician calls him back.

“Sire, he's not here.” Worried. Uncertain.

A breath out. Arthur can't let him know that something is wrong—because nothing’s wrong. “I know,” he hears himself say, “but I've come for something. He's been holding it for me.”

“Holding?”

“Yes, I asked him to, but now I need it,” he opens the door and steps into Merlin's tiny room. It's cleanish, for once, and Arthur sees Merlin's bag hanging immediately—there's not many places to hide something. He grabs it but is careful to make a show of opening it and looking inside. “Ah, here it is,” he smiles as if he has just found something of great importance then snaps it closed, “Thank you, Gaius,” he starts for the door.

“You're going to take the whole bag?” Gaius inquires with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, but don't worry,” Arthur forces a smile that seems so wrong, “I'll make sure it gets back to that incompetent servant of mine.” The insult threatens to choke him, but he somehow says the words normally instead of spitting them past the lump of horror in his throat.

“Ah, of course.” Arthur takes a step. “Are you alright, Sire?”

He turns back, “Yes, Gaius,” a deep breath and another smile, “All will be well now that I have this back.”

Then he's gone because he's king and he can do what he wants, and he doesn't answer to a mere physician.

But it's still so far away from his chambers.

From Merlin who is dying at this very moment.

From the dagger that very much exists. And if Arthur doubted it before—which he hadn't—but he can't now because the proof is there with every step that he overcompensates for because there’s no dagger in his boot.

He'll have to deal with it all.

The bloody dagger.

The gaping wound.

The blood.

_All that blood._

Arthur stumbles, clutching his chest as if he could rip out his heart that's breaking him from the inside out.

_“Listen to me, Arthur.”_

 _“No one can know.”_

_“Please Arthur, it's important.”_

He straightens immediately, his hands fall to his sides and he steps forward again. _“Arthur? Remember to breathe.”_ So, he does even though it hurts.

He's only about halfway there when he's stopped by Lord Aldwin who wants to talk to him about an accident involving one of the horses. He listens and judges calmly, even though inside he's screaming. The steward stops him next, to inform him of some supplies that have gone missing and Arthur schedules a meeting with him and Leon to deal with it even as inside he's counting every moment away from Merlin. Sir Kay catches him to offer congratulations on the latest hunt. It takes all of what little strength he has to answer them in rational tones and to walk instead of running away from them.

It takes all his courage to keep breathing.

* * *

When Arthur finally, _finally_ reaches his room, it's not nearly fast enough. He opens the door to find that the servants have already come and gone with the bath and some of the water.

There is no sign of Merlin.

There is no blood.

“Sire,” respectful as always, George enters carrying two buckets of water. Three other servants file in behind him. Arthur impatiently waits for them to finish their duty. “Will there be anything else, Sire?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur nods his head to dismiss them as he tosses the bag onto the bed, then adds as an afterthought, “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Sire,” they chorus as they leave.

Arthur locks the door behind them and whirls back around, his heart racing.

It had been real, he knows this, but where is the blood?

The dagger?

His friend?

“Merlin?” he calls but his voice has lost its strength, the mask shattering at his closed door.

“...thur?” It's a whisper but Arthur hears it and follows it to the antechamber. Merlin for once is in the room though he's on the wrong side of the door, hiding out of sight, propped up against the wall.

Arthur's right though he wishes with everything that he is that he wasn't. It's all real.

Merlin's hands are soaked with his own blood. His face is streaked with bits of red as if he had rubbed it with his tainted hands. He has no color and his eyes are wide, but they're alert even if they do have a tendency to flicker closed.

The dagger is still embedded in his chest.

Arthur's knees crumble and he falls to the ground, his voice lost, his heart frozen.

He did this.

Merlin's eyes blink a few times then gradually focus on his king. “Arthur?” he asks weakly.

He can't answer, can barely even form thought except...Merlin is dying.

Merlin is dying because Arthur had stabbed him with his own dagger.

Arthur has killed him.

“You alright?”

Wrong, wrong, wrong! _Don't ask me that!_ Just beg and curse and scream in pain! Just stop and be human for once in your life! Your life—

He retches where he is, unable to stomach his actions.

“Arthur!” and suddenly, somehow, Merlin is there, his hands—sticky and red with blood—are at his arms pulling him up, pushing him away from the mess. He's gathering his shirt and pulling it off, tossing it to the side and calling his name.

Arthur lets him because he has no strength, but he wishes that his servant would just leave him be—no, that's not right, never that! Just...he doesn't know. He wants it all to go back before Arthur had stabbed him. And with that thought, Arthur jerks back into the here and now. Gently he pushes Merlin's hands away, “No, you're hurt.”

“Arthur,” it's the same exact thing Merlin's been saying but this time it's infused with relief as if he had been worried about Arthur instead of himself.

“Merlin, please?” But he has no words to finish the thought.

“Arthur, it's going to be fine,” Merlin states happily and seriously how could he be happy at a time like this?

“Where did the blood go?” he asks because that's so much easier to focus on then the very real danger Merlin is in.

Merlin frowns and shifts uncomfortably. He has a cup of water in his hands and when had that happened? Where had he even got it from?

“Magic,” Merlin finally says and doesn't meet his eyes.

Oh. Right. That's all real too.

“Here, drink this,” his servant holds out the cup, but Arthur just stares at it blankly, “It's just water, I swear. It will taste better than what's in your mouth.”

Finally, Arthur realizes that Merlin wants him to drink it and he takes it from his hands. And Merlin's right, it does taste better.

Arthur feels disconnected, like he's in dream and oh, how he wishes this was a dream. And Merlin would wake him up with an obnoxiously cheerful, “Rise and shine!” and Arthur would open his eyes to see his lovely wife lying next to him and he would kiss her because he could, because he wanted to, because she wanted him to.

But then Merlin coughs and something very close to a whimper escapes his lips and Arthur realizes it doesn't matter even if this is a bad dream because Merlin still needs him in either case.

“What do I do?” he whispers brokenly.

Merlin looks at him again, but his eyes are wider than they should be, and he looks like he's having to force himself to stay upright. “Um...” he mutters then shakes his head forcefully, “My bag? Did you bring it?”

Arthur nods and stands on shaking legs; he goes to the main room and retrieves it. Merlin takes it with trembling hands and looks through it, pulling out various herbs, some ready-made potions, some bandages. Lots of bandages.

Arthur's going to be sick again. But Merlin needs him so he can't be, so he _won't_ be.

“Do you think maybe...” Merlin shakes his head with a rueful smile then starts again, “I need water.”

Arthur doesn't hesitate, merely gets the pitcher left out for him. Merlin, as much as Arthur usually hates to admit, has turned into a rather fine physician and for once Arthur can only be grateful. He refuses to think about what the blood loss could be doing to his mindset.

Merlin has the water set down close to him where he has once again propped himself against the wall. He's torn his shirt off around the dagger and tossed it to the side. Arthur looks at it mournfully, though he's not sure why. It's just a shirt.

“Um...I might need a little help,” Merlin says. His voice is getting weaker; he's struggling to stay conscious.

Arthur kneels down next to him and Merlin looks at him and for all his struggle, he looks at him intently. In trust. As if Arthur still deserves that trust after everything he has done.

“As soon as I pull it out, I need you to put pressure on it. It's going to bleed. A lot.”

Arthur swallows because Merlin has already lost so much blood, how can he possibly lose anymore?

“Ready?” Arthur jerks his head which Merlin must take as an affirmative because then he stuffs his neckerchief into his mouth. Arthur stares at him, for the life of him, he can't figure out why, why Merlin would do such a thing?

Then in one swift movement, Merlin grips the dagger and pulls it out. It comes slowly and with a harsh, guttural sound that Arthur wishes he could forget but knows will haunt his nightmares.

He feels sick again.

Then it's finally clear of Merlin's flesh and the blood comes, oh how it comes.

Arthur has seen more battle wounds that he can count, so many, too many for how young he is. But he has never felt so helpless as he does now in the face of all that color staining Merlin's pale skin a vibrant red. There's so much it's drowning Merlin.

Then Merlin's hand is on his shoulder and Arthur remembers his orders. He presses down, down against the onslaught. Merlin grunts in pain and Arthur immediately begins to pull back but Merlin shakes his head roughly and Arthur, hating himself even more, pushes down again even harder than before.

It's a losing battle from the start.

Arthur is no physician, but he knows a man can only lose so much blood before he succumbs to death's embrace. And Merlin has lost so much, too much.

But Arthur is a warrior, and this is his battle and he will fight. He has no sword, no shield. Only his hands to press against the wound, only his strength to push the blood back where it belongs, only his determination to keep holding on.

It takes an eternity.

Until finally, _finally_ the blood slows to a trickle. Until finally Merlin spits out his neckerchief soaked with spit and even more blood.

Arthur feels cold, frozen to the core.

“Alright,” Merlin manages in a shaking voice, “now we need to clean it.”

His hands are steady despite the pain he is so obviously in. As if he does this every day.

Perhaps he does.

Arthur shivers. But he pushes the water closer. “What about the bath?” his voice sounds odd, cold, numb.

Merlin shakes his head, “We'll just have to refill the pitcher. Be too noticeable otherwise.”

Arthur wants to ask why they're keeping this secret, this attempted murder, but he's not sure he really wants to know the answer. If Merlin is doing it to protect Arthur of all people, then Arthur might have to use the dagger on himself.

Then Merlin will never forgive him.

He helps wash the blood away, taking trip after trip to get clean water, using rag after rag. Too many rags, Arthur thinks, it shouldn't take this many. But it does.

After Merlin decides it's clean enough, he throws a quick glance at Arthur and bites his lip. Then he grabs a needle already threaded. Arthur swallows, his heart beats uncomfortably fast; he's not strong enough to stitch his friend back together.

But Merlin doesn't ask him to; instead his hands, steady as can be, stitch his own flesh together. It must hurt beyond anything Arthur can imagine, but Merlin doesn't even blink not even when he first slips the needle into his skin. It must have been an uncomfortable position, but Merlin doesn't complain; he simply does what he needs to do and the needle flashes bright against the crimson red. 

Then Merlin directs him which herbs to mix together and he puts some of the finished product on the wound.

Arthur's not sure he didn't prefer the sight when the dagger had still been there. Better than this inflamed, red even after all the washing, _hole_. Where there should have been unblemished skin not this...this battle wound.

He shivers again.

Next, Merlin has Arthur bandage it, but he has to help him through it, directing it tighter, higher, no, tighter. Arthur wonders how he can even breathe.

“Good, that's good,” Merlin nods then looks around with flickering eyes.

“What?” Arthur asks, desperate to be of some use.

“There should be a tincture to help with the pain.”

Arthur searches through the piles until Merlin finally nods at one, his body almost pitching forward. He won't be awake for much longer.

“Why now?” Arthur asks, a numb curiosity coating his voice.

“Going to knock me out,” Merlin mutters then stares at Arthur, his eyes so serious that Arthur knows he won't like what his servant is about to say, “Arthur, please, no one can know what's happened, I beg of you.”

“People will notice you're not with me,” he states uncertainly, wondering why this matters so much to Merlin.

“Then make something up, just—please, Arthur?” There's a pause while the king refuses to meet his eyes, “I need your word, Arthur, please?”

“Why?”

Merlin makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl, “I promise you I will explain but I can't focus right now—not enough to give you the truth you need. But I'm asking you to trust me.”

“Of course I trust you,” Arthur declares without hesitation. Had there been any doubt that he wouldn't?

Merlin smiles wearily, “Okay, I'm glad,” he sounds relieved as if he hadn't been quite so sure.

Arthur wants to tell him it should be the other way around but what he says instead is, “I promise to keep it secret,” The words burn. The knowledge that he will be condemning his friend to a slow and painful death weighs heavy on his heart.

But Arthur trusts Merlin.

“Okay,” Merlin murmurs again. He downs the potion then looks over at his king again, “Just remember to breathe, alright?” Arthur nods. “Going to go to sleep now,” then he rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

Arthur watches him.

Each breath he takes is for Merlin alone.

* * *

At some point Arthur realizes that he is soaked in Merlin's blood.

With great effort he heaves himself up, heedless of the tingling numbness of his limbs, and stumbles out of the room.

He counts each breath he takes and can only hope that Merlin continues to breathe.

The rest of the bath water he uses to clean himself up. He watches the blood as it swirls around and around, tendrils of red dancing until it has stained the water, tainting its clear color. It's like him, he thinks, blood dancing around him in circles staining everyone he comes into contact with, following him around until he is as red as blood.

He's cold, so cold but he is only vaguely aware of his discomfort as he dresses himself. He stares again at the water and wonders what he will tell the servants when they come to collect it. Or what he will say when they find the blood-stained clothes they threw aside.

But he pushes the thoughts away and returns to Merlin.

* * *

It's a knock at his door that reminds him there is still a world outside of Merlin's pale and shivering body—despite the blanket Arthur draped over him.

People he is responsible for. A council looking for answers. People who need protecting. Knights who need orders. An entire kingdom waiting for him.

It takes everything he has to stand up. To leave the room and close the door, hiding Merlin away from the public eye like he promised.

He has no idea how long it has been, but his limbs feel heavy with lack of use. He wipes away all expression as he opens the door.

“Sire,” George greets him, “I apologize for the intrusion, but I was informed that your supper had not been picked up, would you like me to bring it to you, Sire?”

Arthur hesitates only for a moment before nodding, “Yes, that will be fine. And please inform Mary that some soups would not go amiss in the menu for now—there's a chill in the air these days.”

George bows and murmurs another affirmative. Arthur remembers before the servant disappears to call for more water as well. It doesn't take him long before he's back with hot food and another pitcher of cool water in his hands. Arthur sends him away just as quickly as he can and surveys his empty room. When his eyes fall on the bath still there in the corner he is somehow not surprised when there is only clear water inside, the blood hidden away. He decides that he's grateful that Guinevere is off visiting Elena; he's not certain how he could possibly hide this from her, or that he would have the willpower to do so.

Arthur takes the food into the smaller room. He has no appetite, but his survival instincts force him to eat though he tastes nothing. He needs to keep his strength up, though for what he isn't sure.

Merlin continues to sleep fitfully; his color seems to have gotten worse in the short time that Arthur was gone; his breathing is shallow and ragged.

But he still breathes.

Arthur is careful to leave him some water and the bread soaked in the meat's juices to soften it; it's not the best fare for him but it will be better than nothing.

* * *

One night, that's all Arthur gives himself.

One night to pull himself together.

One night to wallow in guilt. One night to wash away the fear.

One night only.

When the morning comes, he takes all the fear and the guilt and shame and the uncertainty and he hides them all away behind the mask that, for the foreseeable future, is him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you...enjoyed (not quite the right word, but oh well)! And, yes, in case anyone was wondering, this story is completely written.


	3. Chapter Three

Arthur dresses himself, makes himself presentable, washes his hands once more. When he looks in the mirror he sees...a murderer. A betrayer. A king. A man.

He sees Arthur, but he's not sure who that is anymore if he ever knew.

Then he puts on the mask—the mask of courage and strength and stability even if they are everything he isn't—and becomes the king his people need him to be.

* * *

First, he talks to the steward to assign someone to him for the time being.

“Yes Sire,” only a slight pause then worriedly, “about Merlin?”

Arthur doesn't hesitate though the name of his friend sends him flashing back to pale skin and red, red blood flowing freely. “Oh, he'll be much too busy for his regular duties—I've seen to that. As a lesson, to stay away from the perils of the tavern.”

The steward nods, bows, and disappears.

He doesn't like the excuse, especially now that he knows how little time Merlin actually spends in the tavern, but it's not out of character and nobody will suspect anything.

At least, Arthur hopes they won't. That's not entirely true though; he hopes, because he does not want to let Merlin down, that nobody suspects. But for his own sake, he hopes maybe somebody will see through the cracks of his facade and realize that he is nothing more than the broken shards of somebody who will never be enough. But then again Merlin is the only one who has ever seen Arthur for who he truly is. And Merlin is not here to translate Arthur's twisted words and dreams and actions into something that others can understand.

* * *

It's Gaius who comes to Arthur first.

Before the morning council meeting, he approaches with a frown on his face, concern etched in his eyes, “Sire, did Merlin attend you today? It's just he hasn't returned home the past couple of nights.”

“Oh that,” Arthur says dismissively, “I have Merlin running some different errands and chores than normal. He may not return for a while.”

“Oh,” Gaius pauses, his expression unreadable. “May I ask why? And where?”

Arthur smiles good naturally, “And have you help him, Gaius?” He laughs and raises his voice just a touch, “Merlin needs to learn a lesson is all. But don't worry, he'll be fine.”

Arthur sees blood, so much blood he's drowning in it, but Merlin's voice is there, telling him to breathe. Merlin would be fine. He said so.

“Yes, Sire,” Gaius murmurs. He doesn't seem appeased, but he wouldn't, knowing the truth and all.

It doesn't matter. Let him suspect Arthur, think him a bully, think him an ungrateful friend. As long as nobody suspects the truth; doesn't think he stabbed Merlin as a reward for his loyal service and left him alone to die.

Anything but that.

Arthur starts the council meeting. His mask does not slip and again he wonders what that makes him.

* * *

He has plenty of chances to use his excuse. He uses it for each of the Knights, some of the lords of the court, a couple of brave servants, a few villagers.

Each time hurts Arthur, knowing that Merlin is dying in pain and alone.

But he keeps his word, no matter how the syllables stick in his throat and his voice tries to escape him.

* * *

When Arthur can finally escape back to his room, after training and meetings and court—after _life_ , it's dark. He hasn't been by his chambers to check on Merlin at all.

He's terrified of what he will find.

But he waits until after the servants have set his meal out and dismisses them for the night. Then after the door is locked, he grabs the food and water and heads for the antechamber. 

Merlin isn't there.

There is no blood, no bloody rags or torn up shirt or chewed up neckerchief, no dagger, no dying servant.

Arthur's heart stops.

Why had he left him all day? Had someone found him?

Had Merlin ran?

Arthur looks around frantically, his body numb, his heart breaking even more. He searches methodically everywhere. But he doesn't find him.

“Merlin?” his voice breaks on the whispered word. There are a million scenarios running through his mind and none of them are good.

Then while Arthur is contemplating curling up on the ground and never getting back up, he hears a harsh, pained whisper, “Arthur?”

He follows it back to the small room and almost trips over the dinner tray when he sees Merlin propped up against the wall as if he has been there the whole time.

Arthur stares at him. He's there, the bloody rags are there, the dagger is there in the corner.

Maybe Arthur is insane.

“You were gone,” he states, his voice as uncertain as a leaf in a windstorm.

Merlin's eyes flutter open and he smiles uneasily, “Sorry. Didn't realize it was you at first.”

“But how?” he feels so uncertain of everything. Can he trust his own eyes? His own thoughts?

“It's an invisi—” his eyes close and he loses his train of thought, “An illusion,” he finally finishes.

“Oh,” Arthur replies, then, because he still feels off balance, he blurts out, “I was scared you left.”

“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs, “Try not to do it again...”

Arthur shakes his head and tries to pull himself back to the matter at hand, “No matter.” He comes closer to his friend and kneels on the floor, “What do we do?”

Merlin has him unwrap the bandages and wash the wound again—sticky with blood—and they smooth the last of the herbs over it and wrap it again.

Merlin drinks some water but only eats a couple bites of the soup.

Arthur does his best to pretend he isn't worried, but he doesn't succeed very well. “Merlin,” he starts but he can't find the words to say.

“It's alright, Arthur. We'll figure it out,” Merlin promises. Just like he always does, but Arthur can't imagine a future where everything turns out the way he wants it to.

“Why not just heal yourself?” It shouldn't be so easy to say, but it is.

Merlin frowns and hesitates before answering, “I'm better at healing others, not so much...me,” he half shrugs then winces, “It's like there's something blocking me—I'll keep trying.”

“What do I do?” He sounds desperate but he is, and he figures Merlin knows that so there's no point in hiding it.

“Um...more bandages would be nice. And maybe some water throughout the day,” his words are slurring but his eyes are more alert.

Arthur curses himself internally, “Of course, what else?” Please, let there be something else—he has to do more!

Not that any good he does now will undo his past mistakes.

His friend smiles and shakes his head, “Talk to me, keep me awake?”

It's an odd request to ask of your killer but Arthur grants it readily. “About what?” he makes himself more comfortable, where he can watch Merlin carefully throughout the night.

“How's Gaius?”

So Arthur tells him. Even though it's been only a day, Merlin acts as if he's been gone for far longer. He wants to know everything that he missed. He gives advice on what to do about the drought in a small village that had petitioned for their help, inquires about news of Gwen and her escort, he laughs over Gwaine's letter, he worries over Kay's broken arm. He listens to Arthur even though his eyes barely stay open. He drinks more water and picks at the food some more. It's still not nearly enough but it's better than nothing.

And when eventually, his strength seems about to abandon him he forces his eyes open and stares at Arthur intently.

The king tenses in readiness for what he knows is coming.

“And you, Arthur, how are you?”

He swallows and looks away, “How am I supposed to be?”

“Well, I'd prefer safe and happy but I'll settle for alright,” Merlin answers easily.

“How can I be alright when you're dying—when I've kill—” And it hits Arthur again just what he has done, just what danger they were in, what danger _Merlin_ was in. His breath hitches, his eyes widen, his stomach rebels, his vision blurs.

“Arthur, no!” Merlin orders, “Arthur, stay with me. It's alright, I'm not dead!”

“But you will be—you're dying, Merlin! Because I stabbed you!”

He's losing it all again, control shattering like a glass at his feet, leaving broken shards of what used to be a person.

“Yes, that happened, but you didn't kill me, Arthur,” Merlin says emphatically, “It's okay, Arthur it wasn't really yo—”

“How can you say that?” Arthur snaps in anger—at himself, but not at Merlin—never at Merlin.

“Well, you found out about my treasonous secret that I've been hiding and lying about since the first time I met you and yet here we are, so I'd say we're doing pretty good,” Merlin laughs, and if it didn't sound like he was about to pass out, Arthur would have said he sounded giddy.

He makes it sound so simple, so easy. But he's still bleeding and feverish and pale and he's still dying!

“Merlin...” But again, words fail him as they so often do.

“Arthur, we'll get through this. We've been through so much worse, this little set back won't stop us,” he pauses then adds with strength in his voice, “Arthur, breathe.” 

And Arthur fails him in even this most basic of requests. How can he breathe when Merlin might not at any moment? How can he draw in air when the next moment he might lose his first and true friend?

“Sire, please?”

And Merlin is begging and struggling to his feet and that's what finally gets to Arthur. He draws in a ragged breath, breathing in as much as he can. Another breath and another and another until he has his fill and he can see clearly again.

Merlin breathes his own sigh of relief, “Good.”

Arthur nods shakily but can't find the strength or the words to speak.

“Good, just keep doing that, keep breathing, Arthur.”

“You too,” he finally manages to say.

Merlin huffs out what might have been a laugh if he wasn't dying, “Me? 'Course I will—somebody has to keep you in your place.”

And Arthur laughs even though it hurts and it's wrong. Nothing is better but Merlin still cares about him for some inexplicable reason so Arthur can only be grateful and enjoy these moments, few as they may be.

He shifts closer to his friend and looks over the bandage—the wound's already bleeding through and Arthur closes his eyes in sorrow. “I'm sorry.” For stabbing you in the first place, for not being strong enough to handle the consequences of his own actions, for everything.

“Doesn't matter.”

It does, so much, but all Arthur says is, “Get some sleep, Merlin.”

Merlin nods, “Wake me if you need me,” then he lets his eyes slide closed and his head falls back.

Arthur adjusts the blanket over him and keeps watch.

Eventually he lets himself drift off, but he wakes up multiple times to make sure Merlin continues breathing through the long night.

He's awake by the time George comes with breakfast, the door firmly closed, and Merlin hidden away once more.

* * *

He's not really sure when the idea comes to him, if it can be called an idea; it's more like an instinct really. A natural progression of his thoughts that he doesn't take the time to think through to the end—he's not sure he can afford to.

Merlin needs bandages. And Arthur can't just order Gaius to give him some without questions that he can't answer without breaking his word being asked.

Merlin needs bandages.

Arthur isn't used to throwing fights. Prolonging them, playing with his opponent, yes, but to purposely make a mistake? No, he has little experience with that.

But Merlin needs bandages.

And just like that, Arthur lets his sword slip, just a little bit—not enough to be noticeable, not enough to kill him, just a small, tiny mistake and Percival's sword slices right through Arthur's hand, training blade though it is.

The knight drops his sword, gaping. Arthur can hear people calling his name, calling for the physician. But all he can focus on is the absolute horror and gut-wrenching guilt that's playing on Percival's face.

It's a look Arthur can relate to, all too well.

He feels guilty for having placed this burden on Percival's shoulders but... Merlin needs this and Arthur would do it again in a heartbeat.

Then Leon and Frederick are there; someone is pressing their cape to the wound to staunch the bleeding and guiding him to his chambers.

Gaius comes with herbs aplenty, as he always does, and bandages to tend to a whole army. He treats the wound as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

Arthur has him leave the supplies for later with, “You know how Merlin is—he'll want to take a look at it for himself,” he says it with a roll of his eyes and a smirk. He has not once glanced at the antechamber.

Gaius frowns instead of smiling, “Yes, Merlin will be worried,” he replies in a somber voice.

Arthur is told to rest in his chambers for the duration of the day but that only means the council crowds into his room and the day continues on as if nothing happened.

When George brings his supper, he also brings a pain tonic from Gaius with strict instructions to only take it when he wants to go to sleep.

Arthur waits, wanting to go to Merlin but he knows who will come along soon, so he waits and Merlin does not appear at his side.

It takes longer then he expects but eventually there's a tentative knock on his door. Arthur spares one glance to the closed room then makes a quick decision and climbs out of bed. He opens the door and steps out with an easy smile on his face. “Sir Percival, what a pleasure,” he gestures in front of him, “Do you mind walking with me for a moment—I'm desperate to get out of that bed.”

Percival nods and shuffles alongside him. He's always been quiet but there's guilt written in every line of his body and Arthur once again feels the weight of his own shame. “Sire, about today, I feel—”

“Percival, there's no need to apologize,” he has to cut in, because the knight did nothing wrong, nothing at all and he can't tell him that but he also doesn't have to let him wallow in misplaced guilt, “It's training, accidents are bound to happen. It's not like it's the first one to ever happen to me.”

“I'm supposed to protect you though not harm you—on purpose or not!” Percival replies, his voice soft with anger “Please, Sire, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

Arthur smiles gently and lays his uninjured hand on his knight's shoulder, stopping their slow walk, “Percival, there's absolutely nothing to make up for, all is forgiven,” His friend doesn't look convinced so Arthur continues, “I truly believe that you did nothing wrong. All is well. I'm alive and everything is alright. There's nothing to worry about,” Flashes of a dagger and hands slick with blood come to him but Arthur keeps his face straight with an effort. He can, at the very least, do this for Percival.

“Still, I am sincerely sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur almost apologizes himself, but he catches it before it leaves his lips. To make up for his slight hesitation he plasters on a sly smile and says to lighten the mood, “Besides, it's not me you should be worried about, it's Merlin you have to worry about apologizing to!”

But Percival only nods and promises in all seriousness, “You're right. And I will.”

It leaves Arthur wondering just what Merlin has said or done to the knights on previous occasions for Percival to be so serious about the matter of when Merlin found out. And he would find out somehow, Arthur has no doubt about that—he had long ago stopped trying to hide such things from his servant.

“Well, just be sure to stress it was an accident. We don't want to all suffer on the next patrol just because he's mad at you.”

And finally, Percival laughs and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Something eases in Arthur's heart as well.

Maybe, somehow, some of them at least would make it through this nightmare.

* * *

They are all right about one thing: Merlin isn't happy.

No sooner had Arthur unlocked the door and called out his name, then his servant appears in front of him, already clambering to his feet and reaching for Arthur's injured hand before the king can so much as blink.

“What happened?” he demands and there's something in his voice that Arthur can't decipher.

“Merlin, you idiot, what are you doing—trying to kill yourself? Sit down!” he orders, trying to catch his footing. Though after all these years with Merlin, he's not sure why he still bothers.

Merlin obeys, pulling Arthur down with him. He flips his hand over searching for who knows what, then his cold hand is on Arthur's forehead and his face is in Arthur's own.

“It's nothing, just an accident in training,” he consoles. He's surprised at Merlin's intensity; true, Merlin can be the worst—or the best, depending on how bad Arthur feels—mother hen but this seems rather excessive even for him.

“Who did it?” Merlin asks with steel in his voice and fire in his icy blue eyes.

“It wasn't their fault, Merlin, you know how training can be—would you stop fussing!”

Merlin scowls but he does back up a little bit though he still keeps hold of Arthur's hand. “Gaius already looked at it. Don't you trust Gaius?” The strangest look passes over Merlin's face and he pauses, forcing Arthur to hesitate as well. “Merlin?” he presses.

“I—I'm not sure,” Merlin mutters throwing Arthur for a loop but he continues before Arthur can think on it too much, “I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what happened,” he hesitates then adds in a quiet voice, “I felt helpless.”

Arthur sits back as far as he can and processes that abrupt change of subject. Merlin, who Arthur had until very recently believed to be...not helpless but rather unhelpful compared to the knights' strength and training and Gaius' wisdom and vast knowledge. Oh, Arthur is quite certain he would have been dead many times over the years without Merlin's help and Arthur doesn't know how he gets through the days without him but in an actual fight, he had thought Merlin a clumsy obstacle who more got in the way than helped. Brave and loyal, yes, but not much help.

Merlin, who is very much not helpless. And has probably done more than Arthur and the knights combined. Who has saved their lives time and time again.

“I'm alright,” Arthur finally says and doesn't miss the irony of him uttering this statement. He says it, even though it's not true, but he's alive and that's what Merlin wants, so he says it.

“But what if you weren't?” Merlin growls and runs his hands through his hair.

Hands streaked with blood.

“Merlin!” Arthur cries and forgets about everything else, “What happened?” 

Merlin freezes once more, “I was just cleaning...you know?” he waves vaguely down at his chest.

Arthur frowns and looks over it; their roles suddenly reversed. “But the bandage is still the same,” he states with certainty, because Merlin can't get it that tight without help.

There's something wrong and he can feel the dread take up residence in his heart once more.

Something is wrong, very very wrong and he doesn't want to know, doesn't know if he's strong enough to know, but he _needs_ to know. “Merlin, what happened?”

“Arthur, it's...” Merlin sighs and slumps down, defeated—a sight that Arthur so very rarely sees and never wants to see again, “Arthur, what do you remember?”

The king swallows and looks away. He wants to forget it all. “What do you mean?” he evades, desperate to keep the memories locked away.

“I mean, Arthur, what do you think happened?” Merlin asks relentlessly.

“Please, Merlin, don't make me?” The plea falls through his lips, a cry for help that he doesn't deserve and he keeps his eyes closed lest he see his friend finally let him go.

“Okay, Arthur, we don't have to talk about it,” Merlin says tiredly.

“I brought you things,” Arthur says before his servant can change his mind. He disappears into his room, collecting the bandages and herbs along with his strength and courage—just another mask he hopes will be enough to sustain them both. He wishes he was strong enough to relive that day—no, no he doesn't. He wishes it had never happened, wishes he could banish the past to the end of the world and never have to face it again.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath before entering the small room again.

Merlin deftly sorts through the supplies even as his hands shake.

Arthur looks at him; at how pale he is, how sickly he looks, how _deathly_ ill he seems, now that he is no longer actively worried about Arthur.

He directs Arthur once more about tending to the wound.

The wound which is still red but healing ever so slowly. You wouldn't know it though; Merlin's skin is like fire even as he shivers in the open air. His hands shake and his eyes are bloodshot. They don't talk about it. After it's once more hidden away under white bandages, Merlin picks at some more soup, his appetite the same as the day before.

They don't talk; Arthur watches him with concerned eyes and Merlin shoots him glances that carry the same weight. It's ridiculous really, their loyalty to each other. Not that Arthur's loyalty has done the servant any good. Not when Arthur has become the betrayer.

Then finally, Arthur remembers the one bright spot of this whole night, “Here, I brought you something else.” And he pulls the pain tonic into view and holds it out, “It's for the pain,” He's not sure why he adds that last part, Merlin probably recognized it and knew what its contents were made up of.

“That's yours,” Merlin guesses.

“You need it far more than I do, Merlin,” he growls, “I'm the king and I command you to take it,” Merlin still hesitates and Arthur snaps, “Merlin!”

“Fine,” he says sullenly but he takes it from Arthur's hands so he counts it as a victory. “But, can I maybe—I mean you don't have to, but—it's not right of me to take yours and I...can I?”

Arthur stares at him, waiting for enlightenment or at least an inkling of understanding as to Merlin's meaning but nothing comes to him. Perhaps it's the fever talking or the blood loss? But Merlin's hopeful look is falling with every second that passes, and he seems to be drawing into himself.

“That's okay, I just—” he cuts himself off with a strangled sound that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“What are you on about, Merlin?” he finally manages to ask.

“It's nothing.”

“No, it's something, what is it?” It's not a question, it's a demand.

Merlin waits for so long Arthur's sure he won't get an answer but finally, Merlin sighs and says in a whisper that Arthur can barely hear, “I just wanted to help you with your pain. With my magic.”

“Oh. That.” Arthur understands now. Yes, he thinks absently, he supposes that is a possibility.

Merlin shrinks into himself even more, “Yeah. That.”

“Okay.” Arthur decides. It doesn't even surprise him at this point; that one word, his own uncaring emotions. But this is Merlin and he has always made Arthur see another side that he hadn't known existed, why would this be any different?

Merlin perks up like a dog given a treat, “Really, you don't mind?” he whispers and Arthur is pretty certain that it doesn't matter even if he does mind because Merlin looks hopeful and happy and _alive._

So he nods, not trusting his voice—he will not mess this up.

Merlin holds out his hand and Arthur doesn't hesitate to place his own in it. Merlin covers it with his other hand and murmurs some words that Arthur cannot hope to understand.

His eyes flash gold.

And Arthur's pain disappears.

No tingling, no numbness, no uncomfortable twinge of skin trying to mold itself back together. It's as if nothing had happened at all.

Merlin drops his hand and avoids Arthur's eyes and he wonders what his face shows.

“I didn't heal it,” Merlin mutters, “I'm smarter than that at least. But...I'm sorry, this was stupid.”

“Merlin,” Arthur tries but his voice doesn't come out right. He clears his throat and tries again. “Merlin...” Except he doesn't know what to say, doesn't even know what he wants to say. So, instead he places his hand on Merlin's shoulder, “It's alright.”

And surprisingly, it is.

Arthur doesn't care that Merlin has magic, that Merlin's eyes can turn gold, that he had lied and hidden it from him. It doesn't bother Arthur—though the lack of it bothers him—because...this is Merlin.

“It's alright,” he says again.

Merlin raises his head and his eyes—blue and gray again—stare into his intently. Arthur doesn't know what he's looking for or perhaps not looking for but whatever it is he either finds it or he doesn't because slowly he relaxes.

Arthur smiles and for once it's not forced, “Breathe, Merlin.”

Merlin chokes out a laugh and nods, “Right, thanks, Sire.”

They sit in companionable silence for a time while Arthur thinks over his own lack of anger regarding the magic, the sorcery. He has no answers though. He's not sure he ever will.

It's Merlin who breaks it, “Who did it?”

“Did what?” Arthur frowns over at him in confusion.

“Hurt you,” Merlin replies in his you're-so-oblivious-Arthur voice.

“It was an accident, Merlin!”

Merlin scowls at that and responds angrily, “Then why won't you tell me?”

“Maybe because I'm trying to protect them from you!” Arthur snaps, matching his anger.

“Protect _them_ from _me_?” Merlin repeats in a cold voice.

In a deadly voice.

A shiver runs through Arthur that has nothing to do with the cold air and lack of fire in the room.

“No, no! That's not—” Arthur closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, tries to recapture this conversation, “I didn't mean it like that. Just...you can be a bit overprotective sometimes and this, this was just an accident.”

Not Arthur's but everyone else's.

Merlin doesn't respond, just looks at him with an unreadable expression. Arthur doesn't know how to approach him—he feels more like a stranger now than ever before—so a tense silence falls between them.

Once again, it's Merlin who breaks it, “Arthur,” he says in a voice that shows no emotion, “please tell me you didn't do this yourself.”

Arthur stares at him and it's no act; he has no idea how Merlin could possibly have figured that out. “It. Was. An. Accident,” he reiterates because something deep inside tells him that he can never, _never_ let Merlin know it was on purpose.

Merlin turns his head away and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. Arthur doesn't think he succeeded in convincing him, but the servant says nothing more.

“Merlin?”

“It's fine, Sire, I'm fine.”

“It doesn't _seem_ fine,” Arthur says, and he doesn't let it bother him that it sounds suspiciously like whining.

Merlin laughs at that and some of the tension drains out of him, “Well, it never does during a trial, does it?” Arthur thinks he's much too wise for this world—a thought he has had so many times before. “Well, what else happened to you today besides getting maimed in training?”

“It's not that bad!” Arthur protests but Merlin only raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief so Arthur hurries into a detailed account of his day before the servant can question him some more.

Eventually, Merlin nods off and Arthur stops talking about the grain reports from the outlying villages. He watches his friend with worried eyes and wishes with all his might he could change the past.

Or at the very least, figure out how to get through the present with Merlin alive and safe from everyone—including Arthur.

Especially Arthur.


	4. Chapter Four

It's another day, another night. Merlin is getting worse and he can't hide it and Arthur can't ignore it.

Arthur is scared.

Scared because Merlin might die and Arthur will never know for sure; his best friend will just be an invisible, rotting corpse betrayed by his friend and abandoned by everyone he ever loved. Or perhaps, he'll just leave, and Arthur will never know either way.

Whatever happens, it will all be Arthur's fault.

Well, Merlin had—no, Arthur stops the excuses before they can complete; this is all on him. Merlin may have extracted his promise but that was all he had asked of his killer. Arthur has failed him in everything else but in this, he will not. He will keep his word even though it means the fault of Merlin's death lies at his feet twice over.

* * *

_No._

Arthur doesn't know if the word escapes his lips, doesn't know if his voice breaks the cold, cold silence, doesn't know if his denial is heard at all. But he can't say anything, can't try to describe his revulsion and terror, can't try to make himself heard, can't make himself move away from this nightmare, no matter how much he wishes he could, how much he tries to escape. He knows he will never escape.

He can only stare at Merlin, stare at his shaking hands—shaking because of the very item they held—in horror.

“Arthur please?” Merlin begs and Arthur is aware that he has been talking even while he holds out the dagger to him. As if Arthur could ever bring himself to touch it again. “You need it.”

He can't even bring himself to shake his head; he just stares at it, this weapon that had hurt Merlin, had embedded itself into his skin and tore through his muscle and spilled his blood.

“It's just a dagger,” Merlin keeps trying, his voice a solid rock as if what he held in his hands doesn't even bother him.

As if it isn't the very weapon that had killed him.

But Merlin is wrong this time. This isn't just a dagger. It's the dagger his father had given him, not as a birthday present, not as lesson, not even as a test. Just a gift given in a rare show of love. It's the dagger Arthur had used to train with Morgana when they battled with words instead of swords and laughed with each other instead of caused each other pain.

But Arthur can never again look at it with fond memories; he will only ever see this dagger in Merlin's chest.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin sighs in defeat and sets it down on the floor, “but you still need something to protect yourself with.”

He only breathes again when Merlin readjusts the blanket over himself, covering the dagger.

* * *

Arthur dreams of stabbing Merlin.

He dreams of coldly calculating where to place the dagger, plotting his move, his voice as cold as ice, and his hands steady as he stabs the blade into Merlin's chest with a red stained dagger.

He dreams of Merlin falling.

Falling to the ground in slow motion as if all his strings have been cut. Of his friend looking at him in surprise, in concern, in _pain_. The conflicting emotions in his blue eyes—never golden because he didn't use his magic against the king even then.

Arthur doesn't sleep well.

* * *

He's walking with his knights; listening to Sir Leon as he reports on Frederick's—one of their new hopefuls—rather odd tactics in training with a serious tone yet twinkling eyes. Arthur listens and manages a smile even though he's thinking of how Merlin would have loved to hear this story and listen to Percival's quiet interruptions and see Leon's mouth curve upwards, and watch as Percival tries to keep a straight face through it all.

And then all of a sudden, Arthur is thinking of Merlin with his arms bound over his head and a dagger in Arthur's hands as he carves patterns of pain into Merlin's skin.

And he remembers, very suddenly, his nightmare. Of stabbing that dagger into Merlin's chest.

A dagger already red with blood.

Arthur stumbles and is violently sick before he's even consciously aware of falling to his knees.

He sees red.

He sees Merlin in pain at Arthur's own hands.

Arthur's hands stained with the blood of his friend.

He is only vaguely aware of hands on his back, on his forehead, on his arms. Voices calling his name, calling for the physician, calling for Merlin.

But Merlin can't come because he is tied up, being tortured, stabbed, betrayed in every way possible. 

Arthur retches again but he's not aware of the taste or the pain. Only his brave and loyal and good Merlin being _tortured_ by Arthur himself.

* * *

Arthur drifts in and out of reality.

There are daggers streaked with blood and his hands are stained with red, red, so much _red_!

Merlin in chains. Merlin crying out, begging Arthur, “Trust me, please! I'm still me! Please, Arthur, just...please...This isn't you! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” But Arthur only hurts him even more.

There's fire and heat and Arthur doesn't know what's true and what's a nightmare; if any of this is real.

He can hear voices that speak in concern and he thinks sometimes they ask him questions, but he can't answer them even if he wants to. He feels hands examining him and tastes the bittersweet tang of some remedy being coerced down his throat.

But Arthur is only truly aware of blood and pain and betrayal and loyalty. Loyalty stronger than Arthur's betrayal. Loyalty that screamed its courage even while Merlin bit down the screams in his throat.

Loyalty that only Merlin could show him even as Arthur carved his betrayal in skin covered in blood.

He feels like he's on fire even while ice spreads through every part of him, freezing the blood in his veins.

There is a pain so deep in his bones and Arthur is certain he will never be okay again.

For an eternity, this is his existence.

“Arthur?” A whisper in the red, it cuts through the ice and fire alike. “Arthur, it will be okay—I'll fix it, I promise.”

Then, there is a cool breeze that quenches the flames and a soothing warmth that thaws the ice. A golden light seems to envelop him, and he is safe and whole as only Merlin can make him feel.

* * *

When Arthur wakes, he wakes slowly but fully aware of what had sent him spiraling out of control. He’s not surprised to see Merlin sitting on a chair next to the bed. He's wide awake, watching Arthur carefully.

He's pale, like always now, and there's fever sweat on his brow, and he shivers in the warm room. But he watches his king with concern.

It makes Arthur sick.

“Merlin?” he croaks, his voice rough. There’s a foul taste in his mouth; he tastes blood and shivers himself.

“I'm here, Arthur,” Merlin murmurs gently and helps raise Arthur's head up so he can drink.

“Merlin...” Arthur has to ask; he cannot keep this inside though he is not strong enough to know the answer; he does not know what he will do if his nightmares are reality. But he must know because he thinks...he thinks he already knows the truth.

But he needs to hear it from Merlin's lips.

Merlin shakes his head, “It's okay, Arthur, sleep,” a small smile curves his lips, “I'll keep watch this time.”

There's something in Merlin's voice that makes Arthur pause, even in his desperation.

Something lost and sad and...almost _broken_.

Arthur did this to him, made him sound so vulnerable, made him look so broken.

_“Please, Arthur, please listen to me! You don't have to do this! Please, please...just no more, please?”_

Arthur closes his eyes against the voice as if that will help. He wishes he could stop the world, stop it all. No more pain. No more betrayal. No more death. No more blood.

There's that golden warmth then and Arthur slips into sleep once more.

* * *

The second time that Arthur wakes, Merlin is nowhere to be seen and Gaius is in his place.

“Sire?” The physician asks worriedly.

Arthur tries to find his voice to tell him...what? That he is almost certain he had tortured Merlin to the point of death and then to top it all off he had stabbed him near the heart and then because Arthur is the king of betrayal, he had forgotten it all? That he isn't strong enough to remember? That he wishes he had died so he didn't have to live with this life-crushing guilt?

“Here, Sire, you must drink.”

Arthur wonders where Merlin is now.

What if he died while Arthur slept?

No, no he can't die, Arthur _needs_ him! Where is he? He's always there even when he isn't supposed to be but now, he's gone. No, no that isn't true, he's tied up being tortured and he's dying.

He probably hates Arthur. He has every right to, he should hate him.

Maybe he does and that's why he isn't here when Arthur needs him.

He must have said something about his friend because Gaius gently smiles at him, “It's okay, Sire, he was just here. He'll be back soon—as soon as he can.”

Arthur wants to tell him that Merlin shouldn't return, that he can't because Merlin is dying, and Arthur has betrayed him and Merlin should hate him. But by the time that Arthur manages to open his mouth, Gaius is long gone.

Arthur slips out of reality once more.


	5. Chapter Five

When he next awakens, Merlin is back in his rightful place, with worry in his eyes and blood on his hands.

Why is there always blood? Would that color never leave Arthur be? Or is he forever tainted by that thick, dark shade of red?

Arthur stares at Merlin's dirty hands and feels even more sick because it isn't just on his hands is it? This is why, no matter how many times they cleaned and bandaged his wound, no matter that it isn't infected, Merlin isn't getting better.

This is why he is dying.

“Show me?” Arthur rasps out in a broken voice. It's not a demand, not even a question just a plea for the truth he doesn't want to face. The truth he is not strong enough to say.

Merlin looks at him in pity and opens his mouth, to argue no doubt, but then he closes his mouth without speaking. He nods once and his eyes flash gold.

Arthur can't move, can't breathe, can't even form thought.

Merlin had looked bad before, but now? It's no wonder Merlin looks like he's dying: he already has one foot in death's door.

Cuts and lacerations litter his face, his arms, his chest, his hands. Everywhere that Arthur can see. Bruises cover every inch of his body. A body laid bare by Arthur's dagger and hands and feet.

_He did this._

Arthur remembers carving those holes in Merlin's skin. Remembers heating his dagger in fire and branding him a traitor. Remembers chaining him up and beating him again and again. Remembers the feel of bones breaking under his hands and feet. Remembers wrapping his hands around Merlin's neck and squeezing, tighter and tighter until Merlin's heartbeat slowed to an almost halt. He remembers torturing Merlin in every sense of the word.

Arthur shivers, cold to the very depths of his dark, dark soul.

“Why?”

He doesn't realize the word has managed to slip out of his frozen lips until Merlin squirms under his scrutiny and shrugs. Arthur watches, horrified, as the skin separates at the movement and blood seeps out.

More blood.

“Because...when you stabbed me that last time, I think I was supposed to die. I think you were going to stab me in the—the heart but...you couldn't do it. It was like something just snapped inside you. And you missed on purpose. But...” Merlin sighs wearily, “but then you just fell to the ground and _stopped_. Stopped breathing. Stopped everything. It was like you just couldn't—and then you looked up and saw the dagger and it was like you couldn't see anything else, like nothing else even existed in that moment. And I realized you _couldn't_ see anything else and you just kept muttering to yourself about the dagger.

“I didn't know how to help you so I just...I got you of the room and _away_ and when you came back, I thought....I don't really know what I thought, but when you came back you were still...bro— _broken_. And you didn't seem to see or remember anything but the stupid dagger,” Merlin pauses then continues in a whisper, “I was afraid that you would revert back to that state you were in right after and I didn't want you to go back to that...whatever it was.

“I just wanted you to be okay. So I made them disappear.”

Arthur chokes out a sob as his soul shatters around him, as everything that he has ever thought good and right about the world cracks and breaks under the weight of all he has done.

How can he have done all of this? How can he have _forgotten_?

“I didn't mean for it to go on for so long,” Merlin continues, not meeting his eyes—almost as if he were the guilty one, “It's not like I enjoy lying to you or keeping secrets—I just...I didn't know how else to help you.”

Arthur turns his head away and wishes he had the words to describe how wrong that is, how sickening it is. He wishes—

“I'm so sorry, Arthur.”

_“I'm sorry, Arthur! I know it will never be enough, but I'm sorry, so sorry!”_

“This is why you aren't getting better.”

“Yeah, I've cleaned and done what I could but...it's not enough. And I can't reach all of them,” he pauses then adds as an afterthought, “but my magic must be doing something, else I'd be dead already.”

“What happened to 'you were fine'?” Arthur asks in a voice void of emotion, as if he has given up on it all—he hasn't, though it might be far less painful if he did.

“Well I'm not dead am I?” he chuckles but there's no mirth in the sound, “Besides, I am okay, just a bit under the weather.”

And this, this joke breaks through Arthur's walls, “Merlin, I tortured you!” he cries and finally turns to face his friend. “I put you in chains and I beat you and I hurt you and—”

“Yes, but that wasn't you—”

“No! No, I did that to you! Merlin even if you somehow survive, you're never going to be the same—this will never go away. And _I_ did this!”

“Arthur, really, it was your hands but it wasn't—”

“Why I am I alive right now?” Arthur snaps, finally uttering the question that has haunted him since he saw his friend on the ground with a dagger in his chest.

Merlin's mouth snaps shut with an audible sound; he stares at Arthur in confusion, “What?”

“You heard me, Merlin,” Arthur repeats, “why am I alive?”

Merlin frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head, repeats it all. Arthur would laugh if he thought he could stop.

“I don't understand,” Merlin finally manages.

“Why didn't you kill me?” Merlin's mouth drops open and his eyes widen in horror. “Why didn't you escape? Leave me? Blast me away? Why didn't you protect yourself? Why am I alive while you're dying?”

“Arthur Pendragon! You know very well why I didn't do such things, why I would never even think about—” Merlin stops himself and draws in a ragged breath then continues in a softer voice though no less sincere, “You're my friend.”

“So I thought, yet here we are.”

“No, Arthur, listen please? This. Wasn't. You,” Arthur tries to turn away, but Merlin grabs his arm to hold his attention, “No, what I've been trying to tell you is: Arthur, I don't think you were in control!”

“Well, obviously.”

“No, I mean, like at all. Look, before all this happened, I had been noticing some odd things. With you and Gaius and everyone, just little things, odd quirks or phrases that just seemed...wrong. It was enough to make me suspicious,” the words tumble from his mouth as if he's afraid that somehow Arthur will go deaf before he can hear them all, “when you came in here that day and you asked me if I thought you were a fool, I didn't think of it at all though—and I should have but it was all just happening so fast. You knew and, and...” a small pause, a shuddering breath, “I forgot about it until you started torturing me,” he says it so casually, as if the idea of being tortured was something he thought about every day, “but that...even angry, you're a good man. Banishment or execution was the very worst you would do. But you wouldn't play with me. Not like that.”

Arthur stares at him, tries to understand how someone could be so loyal, so sure of the very person who has killed them. But he can't look away, can't tear himself away from this sliver of hope.

“And like I said before, when you tried to kill me, it was like something snapped. Like _you_ came back. Except...broken. I think it br—I think it _broke_ you to know what happened or maybe whatever you did to break the enchantment.”

Enchantment. Not Arthur. Sorcery. Could it be true or was this just another way to help him?

“But, Arthur, this was not your choice.”

Enchanted. He had been enchanted. Except...does that really change anything?

His hands are still stained with blood.

“It's still on my hands,” Arthur decides for them both, his shoulders dropping with the weight of responsibility.

Merlin takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, “I know you think that, and I know you won't believe me but I don't blame you, Arthur. I don't lay any of this at your feet. Please remember that above all else.”

Arthur shudders, tries to push the loyalty away as he has done so many times before, “I don't deserve to be forgiven.”

“Nonsense, now you're just being stubborn,” Merlin tries with a forced smile, “I've always thought you were worthy.”

_And I always said you were an idiot._ The words are there waiting to be said but Arthur can't utter the insult and Merlin slumps a bit lower in his seat.

More blood oozes out and really, how does Merlin even have any left within him? Arthur shivers again.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he says expressionlessly.

Merlin hesitates, though he must be in more pain than Arthur can imagine, but only for a moment, “Alright.”

Arthur can't force any more words out so he's silent as Merlin helps him up and it hurts. Arthur feels like he's been trampled on by a dragon and there's that pain lodged deep in his soul, threatening to destroy what little remains of him.

Merlin is in far worse shape than him.

There's a reason Merlin can't reach all of them to clean them. Arthur unwraps the bandage from his chest to reveal lash marks across his back. Lacerations in the shape of letters curved around the bottom of his neck and shoulders.

_Liar. Traitor._

Arthur's hands shake when he sees the lies written in Merlin's skin. A strangled gasp escapes his lips and he drops the rag.

Merlin gently turns and pats his arm like a child, but Arthur can't muster up any indignation at that, because there is only sympathy in the gesture.

Arthur nods and picks up the rag again, “We'll be okay,” he mutters over and over again, a mantra or a prayer he's not sure, “We'll be alright.”

He sets to work once more.

Ironically, compared to some of the other wounds, the dagger wound in his chest seems far smaller, less fatal. Or perhaps that's just because it has been cleaned and tended to while the rest haven't been as well looked after.

There's so much damage and he doesn't know where to start. He can feel the give of bones underneath his hands but there's so many cuts; all in varying shapes and sizes—there to cause pain more than fatal damage.

But the worst of them all is revealed right over his heart—where the dagger had been meant to strike.

Worse than the hand prints around his neck. Worse than the burns and whip marks. Worse than even where the dagger had rested.

_MONSTER!_

The word has been carved with Arthur's dagger—he will melt it down and destroy it and cast it away where it can _never_ touch Merlin again—heated in fire to make it burn, to make it last.

This isn't just a wound; this is a brand.

The brand of a traitor.

Arthur stares and stares at it and he will never ever be able to erase this image from his eyes, from his nightmares, from his memories. It will always be there, taunting him every time he closes his eyes, haunting his every waking moment, a reminder of just how much of a monster _he_ truly is. A reminder that somebody capable of such atrocities lies underneath all his masks. And no matter how much he wants to; he cannot tear his eyes away from it...

“I'm sorry,” the words will never be enough, never heal these wounds, never undo the past, never be a salve to wash this pain away. But they are all he has left, and he gladly gives them to his friend.

Merlin only nods, accepting the apology and all it entails.

Arthur is as gentle as he can be, but he can't not hurt his friend—and wasn't that the perfect symbolism of their entire relationship? Only a couple gasps escape Merlin's lips, a small cry when he rubs some salve into his neck, a whimper when he washes the brand. Every pained sigh and clenched muscle and tense limb send another wave of horror and guilt and _hurt_ through Arthur, but he knows he deserves it all.

Arthur cleans and applies what Merlin tells him to and bandages as much as possible, hiding them away and out of sight. He wraps bones and does what he can, but it will never be enough.

When he's done, he feels like he has done a week's worth of work without a break. He wants to curl up and sleep without nightmares, without anything to disturb him.

He can't sleep though, not when Merlin needs it far more than he does. But then he's in his bed and he's not quite sure when that happened. He tries to get back up, but Merlin pushes him down again with little strength. “It's alright, Arthur,” he pushes him down again and this time Arthur lets him, the fight bleeding out of him as quickly as it had come, “besides, I promised Gaius I would look after you.”

“You're the one who needs looking after,” Arthur murmurs but his words are already slurring. He wonders what's wrong with him—vaguely he thinks he's wondered that his entire life and will until the day he dies.

“I know. And you'll keep me in line once you've had some actual sleep.”

“Keep you safe,” Arthur corrects.

There's a silence full of something Arthur can't interpret, and he forces his eyes open, but he must be dreaming already because Merlin looks _happy_. Content.

“Yes, Arthur. But for now, you getting some sleep would make me happy.”

Arthur thinks he should but he can't find it in himself to argue with that so his eyes slip closed, safe in the knowledge that Merlin will watch over him.

* * *

The next time Arthur wakes, his mind is clearer.

Guilt still assails him, and shame still envelops him. He's still broken, all jagged edges and torn pieces.

But...What Merlin told him had given clarity. So, it wasn't Arthur's choice—that didn't assuage his part in it, but he wasn't about to let whoever's choice it was get away with what had happened.

Arthur has a purpose. And a kingdom to protect.


	6. Chapter Six

“Merlin?”

His friend appears at his bedside immediately, “Sorry, sorry—Gaius is coming any moment and I was cleaning up.”

'Cleaning up' apparently meant hiding the wounds and the sickness and the pain away all over again. Arthur scowls; he hates that Merlin is so willing to hide it all and pretend that he is fine when he is anything but. Hates that Merlin pulls on his own masks to get through the day; hates that Merlin even has his own masks.

“Come on, he'll be here any moment.”

“What do I tell him?” Arthur asks, climbing out of bed, his body aching though he hasn't actually done anything.

“Well how do you feel?” Merlin asks simply.

“Like I've been fighting a battle for days with no respite,” Arthur answers honestly as he heads to the table to pour himself a drink, “and I'm cold and...sickly.” As he tips the cup back, he realizes it hadn't even crossed his mind to hide his pain from Merlin; again, he wonders what that makes him. A hypocrite, he supposes, though the word doesn't seem descriptive enough for all he has done. For all he has forgotten.

“Back to bed with you then,” Merlin frowns in concern and ushers him in that direction and Arthur allows himself to be led. “You should tell Gaius that and anything else you're feeling—he needs to know what's wrong. And just as a warning...”

“What?” Arthur growls suspiciously.

“They think you were poisoned.”

“What!”

“Well, what else were they supposed to think? One moment you're fine and the next you're vomiting, unresponsive to anyone and anything around you, and acting delusional. And for the record, are you sure you weren't poisoned?” Merlin spouts off with not a breath in between sentences.

“Yes! No!” Arthur sighs and falls back against his pillows, “I have no idea,” at this point, he's not sure of anything.

“Well, Gaius will ask you a lot of questions so you should be prepared,” Merlin warns.

Arthur nods then suddenly sits up again, “Wait, Gaius knows about you?”

Worry and relief wage a war within him but it's short lived when Merlin answers, “No. And please, don't tell him.”

“I won't,” Arthur promises again and though the words still burn his throat, at least this time he thinks he understands why.

“It's just, I couldn't not be here,” Merlin explains, “not without raising the warning bells.”

“What did you tell him?” Arthur asks anxiously, wondering if he should have told Merlin the excuse he had come up with or if it was already too late and they would both be caught in a lie. What would they do then? Arthur doesn't know how to live a life of deception.

“That this is what you get for being such a prat and keeping me so busy,” Merlin replies as he hands him a clean shirt. Arthur takes it; reluctantly admiring the smooth evasion of all the questions that no doubt would have been asked yet still completely in character of their relationship with each other. They had both always been far more comfortable in hiding their affection and worry for each other behind insults and banter.

Not that he has to like the deception. “So that's all?”

Merlin frowns, bites his lip, looks around at the room for an answer, then shrugs. “Yeah, think so.”

“I'm just supposed to go back to pretending that I don't know?”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin may have gone on but there's a knock at the door. He throws him an encouraging smile then limps over to answer it.

Arthur pulls on his own mask—still just as dreaded and still just as necessary—as Gaius walks in, already asking Merlin how Arthur's doing in a quiet voice.

“Ah, Gaius,” Arthur interrupts because he has never been an easy patient and he isn't going to start now.

“Sire, you're awake!” Gaius exclaims with relief.

Arthur wonders how bad his condition had gotten for the physician to be so openly relieved. “I am,” He wonders what Gaius would sound like if he could lay eyes on his beloved ward and see the canvas of pain that Arthur and someone—he will find them and he will stop them—has painted on him.

“And how do you feel?”

Arthur answers as honestly as possible—but he cannot tell him about the pain that is so deep in his bones, that burrows deep into his very soul—and accepts Gaius' examination with little complaint. Merlin hovers at his mentor's shoulders and looks for all the world like he's fine—only worried for Arthur.

“Do you recall eating anything unusual?”

“No.”

“Drink anything with a different taste than you were expecting?”

“No.”

“See anything?” 

Blood and chains and betrayal. Arthur keeps his eyes locked on Gaius because if he looks at Merlin—clean and whole and standing—than he will break.

“No,” his voice does not waver.

And on and on it goes.

After Gaius has exhausted his questions, he allows him to eat and drink a little bit. Then he leads Merlin into the corner, and they talk in whispers too quiet for Arthur to eavesdrop on. He scowls at both of them but they, as usual, ignore him.

After Gaius leaves, a couple of his counselors trickle in and the questions start all over again. Then comes Leon and Percival who ask the same exact things. He knows they're all just doing their duty, but his patience is wearing thin and he can't help but snap at them until they finally bow out of his room.

After they're all gone, he feels like he could sleep for an entire week and he's tempted to just fall back into bed.

But Merlin comes first.

* * *

Taking care of Merlin doesn't get easier no matter how many times he does it.

Maybe, he thinks, whatever he does won't even matter in the end. But Arthur pushes the thought away as soon as it surfaces, refusing to even so much as contemplate that what he's doing now won't matter in the future.

He cleans the wounds and scratches; binds the broken bones; sets poultices over the burns; and he stitches the wounds Merlin can't reach together.

There are times when Arthur thinks he sheds more tears than Merlin sheds blood.

* * *

“Sire, if we may have a word?”

Well, those words never bode well but Arthur only nods and murmurs, “Of course,” even while his feet lead the small group into an empty room and his muscles tense in preparation for an attack. “What's on your minds?”

Leon clears his throat and looks slightly uncomfortable while Percival absolutely refuses to meet Arthur's gaze. This isn't good at all, is it?

“It's obviously something important, please you know you can speak your minds without fear of my reprisal,” Arthur says, even though it's only partially true—as a king there are certain things that he cannot overlook no matter in what confidence they are given.

“It's about Merlin.” Percival finally says.

Arthur's heart starts to beat an unsteady rhythm and his lungs threaten to close in on him. No, no he doesn't think that he can force another lie past his lips, not now when he _knows_ what Merlin has given up for him, “What about him?”

“It's just...well, we don't mean to criticize but...” Leon starts, he runs a hand through his hair then takes a deep breath before rushing on, “don't you think you might be working him a bit hard?”

“It's just we've barely seen him the past week and he seemed rather...tired when we did,” Percival finishes.

_Oh, is that all?_ Arthur wants to laugh—this is by far the best concern they've brought to him—but at the same time, he wants to scream—because they don't know the half of it and how tired Merlin really is. And that no matter what Arthur does, it will never be enough.

“It's been a rather long week for him—for us all,” Arthur replies, trying to keep to the truth without giving anything away. He can't help but wonder how many times Merlin had done this for him.

“Not that we're blaming you, of course,” Leon assures him, again, then he adds, “We just thought you might want it brought to your attention because—well, you ordered us to, if you recall.” Which is true; Arthur had ordered everyone in the castle, besides Merlin of course, to tell him if his servant seemed unwell or tired beyond normal or not eating enough. This had been after Merlin had collapsed during a feast from, according to Gaius, exhaustion and a fever that Merlin had told no one about. This was, of course before Arthur knew the truth and wondered if all those times had been lies and Merlin had been suffering from something far worse than exhaustion.

“I do and I thank you for bringing it to my attention,” Now what to do about it? Then he shakes his head because the answer is as clear as can be, “And between you and me, I would give anything to give him the rest he deserves, but you know how he is; he never listens to me, always thinks he knows what's best.”

They both nod in understanding with fond smiles but it's Leon who answers, “Yes, he does at that, though after your...sickness it's rather surprising he's left your side.”

It's a good point but Arthur can't tell them that he had left Merlin sleeping fitfully after once again tending to those cursed wounds that weren't healing nearly fast enough so he merely shrugs, “He'll be around here somewhere, mother hen that he is.”

Percival chuckles and Leon laughs outright so Arthur plasters on a smile of his own. It feels wrong but he still has to pretend that everything is alright.

“Has any messenger arrived from Gwen today?” Arthur changes the subject, more than ready to talk about something else.

“No, Sire,” Leon replies, naturally slipping into report mode, “but there's nothing unusual about that since we received one only three days ago.”

“And since the queen is not set to return for a while longer, no news is good news,” Percival adds.

“Quite,” Arthur agrees though really, it's not about the news itself, he just wants to read something written in Gwen's messy handwriting, wants something to remind himself that she loves him and that she is coming home to him.

He has no idea what he will tell her, how he will keep his sins away from her, but he wants her there with him regardless.

* * *

Merlin slides something closer to his king, his eyes locked on Arthur.

Arthur's too busy trying to wash the blood from his hands to pay much attention to it until a drop of water gleams unexpectedly.

He drops the rag and stumbles backwards until he hits the wall hard enough to leave a bruise. It's still not enough distance, not nearly enough; he's tempted to run out of the room, out of the castle, out of his kingdom.

“Arthur please, it's alright, it's okay,” Merlin is saying over and over again and Arthur wonders how long he's been talking, “Please, Arthur it's fine, it's just a dagger—it's your dagger!”

Arthur shakes his head over and over again; he can't breathe; his lungs are frozen in terror.

It's worse now, so much worse than it was before. Before Arthur remembered what it had done to his friend, before he remembered his hands holding it and forcing it to do those horrible things that will forever haunt him.

The dagger lies innocently between them. It's clean of the blood that Arthur had purposely left to dry so it would rust and corrode the blade. It shines clean of Merlin's blood, polished by its victim's hands, sharpened by Merlin because Arthur certainly hadn't taken such care of it.

And Arthur doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand. He wants to never lay eyes on the dagger again, he can't even imagine touching it after they atrocities it has committed—they have committed together.

How can he? What if he is enchanted again? What if he uses it to hurt Merlin again? To hurt anyone? No, he won't put himself in that position. There's a part of him that knows this isn't logical, that knows he could use his sword—indeed, he can use any weapon at all to harm his people.

But it was this dagger that has already been used and he can't find it in himself to touch it.

“Sire....Arthur, please listen to me,” Merlin says, his eyes blazing with _something_ that Arthur has never been able to place, no matter how many times he sees it.

Because he recognizes this look, oh so many times he's seen it. This is the look that Merlin always wears when he tries with all he is to get Arthur to _listen_ ; when he tried to warn him over and over again about Aggravaine, when he tried to convince Arthur to take him as a sacrifice to the Cailleach, when he told Arthur to believe in himself, when he tried and _tried._ And Arthur so very rarely listens.

Arthur takes a shuddering breath and listens to Merlin.

“Arthur, you need another weapon with you—at all times and not many know about this one. You're not safe and you and I both know how easy it is to lose track of swords—especially against sorcerers. This dagger—or any dagger, really, it doesn't have to be this one specifically—could save your life.”

Yet another reason he shouldn't take it then.

Merlin chances a glance at Arthur then sighs and continues in a resigned voice, “And by saving your life, you save mine.”

And Arthur doesn't need to hear anymore, doesn't have the strength to fight anymore, doesn't have to even think about his next move.

Because, as he so often is, Merlin is right. Arthur is the only one who knows about his wounds, is the only one taking care of him, is the only one trying to save his life—when he's not the one taking it. If something happens to Arthur, Merlin has no chance at surviving.

And if there is even the slightest chance that this will help Merlin how can Arthur not take it?

He takes a shaky step forward, and another, and another until he bends down and with the utmost care his hands touch the dagger. He slips it into his boot as fast as he can; afraid of what he will remember, afraid to let Merlin see the dagger once more in his hands.

The brief touch still burns.

“For you,” Arthur murmurs, because he needs Merlin to know why he's doing this, because he needs to remember why he is doing this, “Only for you, Merlin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update-life got pretty chaotic and then my computer wasn't working for a bit. I'll try to be a bit more consistent with updates though. As an apology, here's two chapters for you.


	7. Chapter Seven

Arthur takes a deep breath then lets it out slowly. There are times when he hates being king. When the responsibilities are too much for just one man. When the duties are too heavy for his feeble shoulders.

When he knows he is not enough for his people.

“Your Majesty?”

They're all looking at him for answers and Arthur doesn't have any. He doesn't know how to make these kinds of decisions, how to make sure everyone is treated fairly, how to guarantee this doesn't happen again. He wants to run away. Wants to scream and lock himself up. Wants to throw away his birthright and give the crown to someone far more worthy than he.

But he is king, and his people are looking to him for answers, so he takes another deep breath and straightens his shoulders, readjusts the crown on his head, strengthens his mask, and answers the people crying for retribution from the thieves. He hands out sentences and judges the criminals. He calms the victims and offers aid to the family who was hurt.

He wonders, as he listens to each petitioner, if they think he is as unworthy as he himself does.

* * *

Arthur slips the door closed and calls out a greeting to Merlin even as he lets the hated mask slip off at the door.

“Sire,” Merlin murmurs quietly, watching him as he unbuckles his cape and takes off the heavy crown with a sigh he can't quite contain. “Long day?” Merlin ventures.

Arthur can only nod, “Aren't they all?” he steps closer, ready to once again delve into trying to take care of his servant—it’s better to do it first and get it over with, “Are you ready?”

Merlin shakes his head, “Not now.”

“You need tended to!” Arthur exclaims in surprise, “You can't just pretend these away no matter how much you try.”

“It's okay, Sire, I'm not giving up,” he hesitates, opens his mouth, then shakes his head and shrugs.

“Merlin” Arthur demands. He finds himself inexplicably angry at the whole situation, he wants to yell and shake some sense into his servant, wants this whole nightmare to be over already.

“I—just not right now, please,” Merlin whispers and there's something lost in his expression; he sounds utterly exhausted and Arthur finds the anger fading as quickly as it had come, “I'm just not up for it right now. Please?”

_“Please Arthur, I know you—you can stop this, please, just stop this, Arthur!”_

Arthur swallows, his mouth dry as he flashes back to chains and blood and pain. He nods because how can he not answer Merlin's pleas now? “Okay.”

Merlin smiles wearily, “Thanks,” Arthur slides down across from him and watches as his eyes flicker and shivers wrack his body.

“You're worse,” It's not really a question but he wishes it was.

“Long day,” Merlin smirks and Arthur can't help but respond with his own small smile. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Maybe later.”

Merlin forces his eyes open to look at him and Arthur struggles to meet his gaze; there's something unreadable about his servant right now but he doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know if he can afford to know the answer.

“You?” Arthur offers; he wants to know, wants to help, but he also wants to break that gaze that sees right through him to his very soul. His soul which is torn and dirty and unworthy.

“Not really.”

“Copy-cat,” Arthur mutters without malice but Merlin only shrugs.

They lapse into silence; Merlin doesn't sleep, he only watches Arthur through the night, his voice silent.

* * *

“I don't understand,” Arthur ventures one evening, after tending to Merlin. His hands still shake from the horror of the task he has set himself. “I remember...everything—well I think I do—but...it was _me,_ ” these are the words he's scared of uttering out loud, worried that Merlin will retract that sliver of hope that assuages a tiny part of Arthur's guilt. 

Selfishly he wishes that Merlin had other words, words that could take all of Arthur's guilt and his shame and his uncertainty and his doubt away. Words that could absolve Arthur of every sin he has ever committed. Words that would make this all go away—not just relegated to their past but _away_ , make it where this had never happened in the first place. Make it so Arthur is clean and not covered in Merlin's blood.

Merlin hesitates for a long moment, but Arthur waits patiently; it's a long process for both of them but Arthur is getting better at waiting for Merlin to slip past his own masks that he's spent years building and tell Arthur everything. His patience is rewarded when Merlin shrugs ever so slightly so as not to tear open the stitches that Arthur had painstakingly stitched, “Enchantments are tricky things; some you know aren't you and so you fight and fight with everything that makes you _you,_ until the enchantment is broken or you die,” Arthur can't help his shiver and Merlin smiles sadly but he doesn't comment on it, “Some enchantments are only there for a moment and gone in the next once their purpose is complete.

“And... And some enchantments slip in unawares and they change you; the very way you think, the way you act, the way you talk. They take _you_ and they completely twist you into their own and you can't do a single thing about it.”

It takes Arthur no time at all to realize that Merlin isn't talking like somebody who had just gleaned this knowledge from an old, forbidden book. No, he talks with the air of experience and Arthur isn't sure he wants to know when or where or how Merlin had gained it.

He's not sure about a lot of things these days.

“Did you read that in a book too?” he asks thinking back to a conversation about destiny and love—one of the many, many times when Merlin had spoken with a wisdom that far belied his years.

Merlin laughs but there's a slightly dark edge to it, “No, I didn't read it,” he replies; infinite sadness written in his eyes.

“Do I want to know?” Arthur whispers and wonders how many more secrets one man can hold. He wonders if he himself is strong enough to hold all of them and keep them locked away and never let them see the light of day.

Merlin's face softens and he smiles—a real smile, not one that hints of darkness and sorrow, not one that evades with simplicity and joy, just...just _Merlin_. “I'm not sure but if you do, I'll tell you.”

Arthur looks at him for a long time; trying to weigh his sincerity, trying to understand if Merlin wants him to know or wishes it could all stay locked in the past. But all he can really think is how much it must have cost Merlin to say that, to promise so much with so few words and in that Arthur knows he has his answer, “Maybe another time.”

“Just because you don't remember being under someone else's control doesn't mean that you weren't,” Merlin assures him and Arthur feels another small part of his burden lifted, not nearly enough for him to fully breathe but a little bit of air slips past the guilt.

“How do we find out for sure who it is? And how do we stop them?”

They're the questions they've been dancing around since Arthur had accepted the memories, he wishes weren't his own but they're no closer to an answer now. Though Arthur is quite certain he knows who—Morgana hasn't hidden her hatred of them in the past, but he can't rule out any other suspects. As to how to stop them he has no idea.

Merlin frowns and looks ahead of him instead of at Arthur. But this is nothing new; he always does this when they plan as if he can see into the future and come up with the right answer.

Maybe he can.

“Can you see the future?” Arthur blurts out without even thinking about the ramifications of asking such things.

Merlin starts back and jerks wide eyes to him. “What?”

“Well...you always come up with a plan when we need one. Is—is that because you can...you know, see into,” Arthur waves his hands in the air for lack of better words, “the future?”

Merlin looks at him for a moment like he can't decide whether to laugh or cry. Finally, he clears his throat, “Um, no. Not really—I mean I have before but it's not...” he trails off, shaking his head.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to—it's not like I know!” Arthur defends himself uncertainly, feeling strangely embarrassed.

Merlin nods and pats the air, “I know, I'm sorry, this is just all so new to me too, so just um...” He trails off then takes a deep breath and continues in a patient tone, “Okay, um I can't see into the future like right now—not yet, at least, Kilgarrah seems to think I'll learn how. But for now, I need something to focus on, like certain objects to channel the ma—” he clears his throat awkwardly, “to channel the magic into. And you can't really control what you're seeing, to a certain extent I guess you can—but you would have to be pretty talented to be able to do that, and if you're not then you just see general images, flashes of what could be. Like me, that's—that's what I see.”

“Oh,” Arthur says for lack of anything else. How did you look at someone the same when they admitted that they were powerful enough to look into the future, to glimpse into the unknown, to see possibilities beyond the present moment? How did you even react to learning something like that?

“Sorry, is that too much?” Merlin suddenly seems to shrink into himself and he watches Arthur with something akin to fear. It's not fear though, Arthur has seen Merlin afraid and this isn't it, but he can't quite name what it is.

“No, I just...this is new, and it will take a bit to get used to for both of us,” Arthur replies and wonders again how and why he's so calm about this. He's let Merlin use sorcery on him but talking about it, openly and without malice or suspicion has suddenly brought up so many new things to worry about that he hasn't thought of before.

What happens if Merlin dies—no, never that, please! Arthur can't forget—or he doesn't think he can forget what has happened, and it occurs to him that he might have to rethink several things first in his life then in his kingdom.

And what happens if Merlin, somehow, miraculously lives? Arthur can't, he _will not_ execute him no matter how many laws he's broken. And the thought of banishing him is laughable because Arthur can't even get through one day without him let alone a life without Merlin by his side.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin apologizes out of the blue but Arthur waves it away.

He hesitates then decides it's better to ask now while he wears his mask of courage rather than later, “What did you see, when you looked into the future?”

A sudden tension fills the room; Merlin's hands tighten into fists and he clenches his jaw hard enough Arthur can hear his teeth grinding together.

“That good?” Arthur tries to break the sudden silence, but it doesn't help. Maybe he doesn't want to hear the answer after all; he needs to live in the hope of a better world to get through this murky present.

“I've seen many things,” Merlin finally answers. He looks at his fists and gradually unclenches them, lets out a breath, and flexes his jaw. “Some things have already come to pass, despite my best efforts, I'm sorry to say.”

Arthur casts his mind back and decides it's best not to know exactly what Merlin might have known beforehand. The dragon's wrath. Morgana's betrayals. The doracha tearing into their world and dragging so many to their icy domain. Uther's death. Agravaine's betrayal. Gwen's betrayal. So many tragedies that Merlin might have tried to stop before they even began.

“And some haven't yet come to be; but it's hard to pinpoint how far in the future they're supposed to come to pass” Merlin sighs again and Arthur can hear the heavy burden that Merlin carries. That he's carried for so long and Arthur has never understood—noticed, yes but with no context. And now, here he can understand.

It makes him both sorrowful and weary. Sorrowful for all the times he couldn't be there for Merlin and weary for the burdens he has only now begun to share and already they seem too heavy to bear.

“But nothing is written in stone,” Merlin suddenly says with steel in his voice and ice in his eyes.

And Arthur knows he's seeing a side of Merlin not many people live to walk away from.

* * *

Arthur chances a glance at the mirror; he stands tall and his chin is raised confidently, and his eyes hold nothing but assured power. He looks as if he has every right to the crown. He looks as if he has no cares in the world; as if everything is fine.

But it's just a mask—a lie really.

Sometimes, Arthur thinks, a mask is all he is.

And all he'll ever be.

* * *

George holds the door open for Arthur, his eyes down, his voice silent. Arthur holds back the sigh that threatens to slip out in the face of this perfect servant that does everything right and Arthur is thoroughly sick of.

He's not quite through the doorway when the door bangs shut, catching his foot and causing him to stumble.

“Your Highness! I am so sorry!” George wails in horror.

Arthur catches himself, a hand on the wall and turns to tell the servant it's fine, no harm done when the words die in his throat.

He's not sure why but he knows, somehow, that the 'mistake' had been no such thing. He can't imagine what anyone would gain from something as little as this, but he knows this was no accident.

George keeps apologizing, quailing in the face of Arthur's silence, begging forgiveness.

Arthur clears his throat and tries to pretend he doesn't know anything is wrong, “It's fine. Mistakes happen all the time.”

* * *

When they're not speaking about the future and magic and Arthur's doubts, then Arthur will recount everything about his day. Everyone he spoke to, the looks he had observed, their actions, their tone of voice. Maybe it should feel like spying, but it's no different than Arthur has done so many times in his life.

An observant king is often a breathing king.

It's not easy noticing the shifts, and Arthur understands why Merlin hadn't felt he could explain it before Arthur remembered everything; it's not obvious, it's not like his people are suddenly going around acting like somebody is in their mind, controlling their actions. They're them just...slightly off.

Like Percival when he spoke Arthur's name with just a hint of warning then looked confused and avoided him.

Like George when he bowed and said, “Yes, Sire,” just a bit bitterly then in the next moment apologized and spent the rest of the day trying to make up for it.

Like Gaius when he handed a bottle absentmindedly to Arthur before snatching it away from him with wide, terrified eyes.

Like Geoffrey when he moved just a little aggressively toward Arthur before he stumbled over nothing, like Mary when his food was delivered stone cold, like Leon when he spoke just a bit too passively, like a villager who stumbled in front of Arthur's horse then ran away shouting apologies behind him.

It isn't anything that Arthur would assume meant anything other than a bad day here and there but when he reports to Merlin the servant's eyes turn darker and darker and Arthur knows it's not just a bad day.

It's something so much worse.


	8. Chapter Eight

“Gwen's coming home!” Arthur informs him; nerves and happiness mixing together in his stomach, the way only she has ever made him feel.

Merlin smiles at the news even as he curls up against the wall, careful of his back, “Ah, no wonder you're so excited.”

Arthur frowns, not because Merlin's wrong which he isn't. Guinevere has been away for so long already, though a day seems too long without her by his side. He misses her laughter and her wisdom given equally and freely. He misses the feel of her in his arms and her hands running through his hair. He misses _her_ and there's a part of him that keeps counting down the hours until she returns home to him.

But.

But Arthur still has trouble breathing when he thinks back to blood and daggers. He still feels paralyzed when the memories come flashing out of nowhere. He still freezes internally when someone mentions Merlin's name. He spends his nights in the antechamber, tending to Merlin's wounds and talking until Merlin finally succumbs to a restless sleep. He jerks awake from nightmares that follow him into the day.

But Arthur is still just as unsure of who he is when he looks into a mirror.

How can he ever pretend that he is fine when all he'll want to do is break down in her arms and let her soothe away his doubts and fears?

“What will I do?”

Merlin just smiles at him, pity and sympathy blending with joy and laughter seamlessly, “You'll do what you always do; you'll love her.”

* * *

His Guinevere comes home. He holds her in his arms and melts into her embrace and memorizes the color of her eyes as she looks at him, the curve of her lips when she smiles, the way she murmurs his name into his neck.

For a little bit, Arthur doesn't think about daggers and blood and betrayal. For a little bit, Arthur is happy.

* * *

“Rise and shine!”

Arthur's eyes snap open—images of chains and blood and a dagger still burned into his vision— his heart pounding painfully fast, his hand automatically reaching for his sword.

“Come on, we've got a big day ahead of us, and we need to get moving if you want to eat before the council meeting.”

The curtains are yanked a bit too joyfully away from the window, illuminating the room with the bright morning light. Merlin stands beneath them, idiotic grin in place; his injuries hidden away as if they had never been. But Arthur knows better now.

“Merlin—”

“Merlin!” Gwen squeals and jumps out of bed only to hurl herself at the servant.

Arthur has a horrible vision of Merlin stumbling back, the magic disappearing in the deluge of pain, injuries not yet healed and blood spattered skin visible for all to see, even as his lips curve into a smile while he has to bite back a scream but Arthur's helpless to do anything but watch.

Merlin _does_ stumble back when Gwen reaches him, but he brings his arms up easily and hugs her in return and his smile doesn't waver though Arthur can see, now that he's looking, how he bites the inside of his cheek.

Arthur can't breathe for fear of what will come out of him.

Gwen pulls away first, “Merlin, it's so good to see you!” she gushes and even in his panic, Arthur still can't help but smile at her exuberance, “It's been ages! I thought you'd be there with Arthur when I returned but you weren't and that's okay, of course, but then you weren't there at dinner either and—”

Merlin laughs, interrupting her, “I missed you too, Gwen.” Then he pulls her into his arms again, but his eyes find Arthur's and he takes a deep breath meaningfully and nods ever so slightly in Arthur's direction.

Arthur takes the hint and draws in a lungful of air that does nothing to fill the gaping chasm in his heart.

Okay, okay, he can do this. He can do this, nothing's changed. Merlin still needs him and Gwen can't know and Arthur is fine. Really. He takes another breath and knows he should say something, interrupt and make a nuisance of himself in the face of their reunion but...but he doesn't. He just watches them and knows he can't possibly love either of them any more than he already does.

And he knows, once again, that he must find whoever is threatening the safety of his people. The safety of his friend. The safety of his wife. He must stop them before anything worse can happen.

He takes another breath and nods determinedly at Merlin.

* * *

Merlin stays by his side the entire day and even knowing the truth, Arthur can't tell that anything is wrong. There is no fever sweat, no pale skin, no blood showing, not even a hint of a bandage peeking through. Arthur knows it's all an illusion, knows that Merlin has hidden it all away with magic and now pretends he's fine while behind that wide smile he's still a mess of pain and infected wounds and a dying body.

It makes Arthur sick even while a part of him is grateful. With Gwen by his side and Merlin behind him Arthur feels complete again; he'd forgotten what that felt like. He'd forgotten how _good_ they make him feel.

Merlin laughs and jokes and serves Arthur without being ordered to and nobody, not even Gwaine now that he's returned notice that not all is as it seems. And Arthur watches and listens and banters because it's what's expected of him but the whole time, he's wondering how many times Merlin has done this and how he has never known.

And when it will all be too much for Merlin and he'll simply drop to the ground, dead.

But Merlin just continues like everything is fine and Arthur follows his example, even though inside he's screaming.

* * *

“Arthur, is everything alright?” Guinevere asks him, her eyes crinkled in worry.

He forces a smile, suddenly grateful for all the comportance lessons he learned in his childhood. He wants her to know the truth as much as he wants her to stay oblivious to his disastrous mistakes. “I am now that you're finally home.”

She smiles at him even as she playfully swats at his arm, “It wasn't that long of a trip!”

“It felt like an eternity,” he counters as he steps closer to her, “Are you telling me you didn't miss me at all?”

“I didn't say that,” she says a bit breathlessly.

Another step closer, “So you did miss me?”

She laughs and the sound eases something in his heart, though he can't forget the closed door just a few steps away from them where so many secrets are hidden. “Very much so.”

He smiles triumphantly and gathers her up in his arms.

* * *

“I'm glad to see that time away didn't interfere with your training,” Arthur commends Mordred, pausing in their drills for a moment.

“Sir Gwaine was very adamant we still train, Sire,” Mordred offers tentatively.

He's still so shy and so young but Arthur can see how much he's come out of his shell; he smiles more and tries to joke around and Gwaine had reported that he took to every duty with the same determined spirit.

But Merlin doesn't trust him.

It's obvious—has been since they ran into the young druid—by the way he watches him warily and is always so _present_ when Arthur is with Mordred and while Merlin makes a point of befriending each of the knights he has been almost...cold with Mordred.

It hadn't made any sense before and it still doesn't—asking about Mordred is not high on his list of things he needs to talk to Merlin about—but Arthur is more hesitant to trust him now.

Arthur likes Mordred, wants this young man—this druid, whether he still practiced or not, to stand for something, wants to befriend him. But Merlin doesn't trust him and Arthur trusts Merlin.

“Well, that's always a good lesson,” Arthur agrees with a smile far less warm than it had been before this whole mess had started, “one I think we should stick to even now.”

Arthur brings his sword up once more.

* * *

“It is Morgana, isn't it?” Arthur asks but it's not really a question. They can't count anyone else out—Camelot has too many enemies and oh, how Arthur wishes he could change that—but Morgana is the only one that Arthur knows who is so sadistic about it.

Merlin bites his lip and nods, “Yeah.”

Arthur should be used to this pain but even after all this time, it still hurts. And in a twisted way he's glad, while he would love to live a life without betrayal, he does not want to imagine never feeling this hurt over something as tragic and as heartbreaking as his sister is. 

Still, he wishes she didn’t put him in this position where he must plan her death.

* * *

“Are you sure this is wise?” he finds himself asking hesitantly. He's on his side near the door watching Merlin worriedly. Merlin who once again has begged Arthur to leave him be, to not tend to his wounds, and now watches Arthur with weary yet still alert eyes.

It's becoming too much of a habit.

Merlin nods, heedless of Arthur's worry, “Of course it is, better for her to not have any idea what's going through our minds.”

“But it's not good for you,” Arthur argues, the fear and stress over the past events all combining into frustration, not so much with Merlin but with everything. “Being up and about all the time! Being around people where they can jostle you and carrying things that are too heavy and you can trip! When you should be sleeping and not serving me of all things!”

“I _am_ your servant,” Merlin says resolutely, that loyalty that has always both intrigued and scared Arthur flashing in his eyes.

He swallows, looks away, looks anywhere but at Merlin. “Why Merlin? Being my servant is nothing to be proud of, lugging around my armor and bringing me food is nothing to be happy about in the morning. Going out on hunts and patrols and battles is nothing...You deserve better.”

There's a weighted silence that lasts long enough for Arthur to look up at his friend. He'd expected surprise, worry, maybe even frustration at his confession. He hadn't expected the anger that is written as plain as day in Merlin's eyes, suddenly hard with emotions Arthur can't fathom. He hadn't expected Merlin's fists to be clenched so tightly there's no color whatsoever left in them. He hadn't expected to hear Merlin's teeth grinding together and his eyes to be blazing with fury.

“It's true Merlin,” Arthur whispers though a part of him orders himself to stop, stop before Merlin recognizes the truth in his words and leaves Arthur alone.

Merlin takes in even measured breaths, his hands still clenched into tight fists, his eyes still glaring icy daggers at him. “Never ever say that to me again,” he demands in a voice as regal as any king's, as commanding as any general's, as dangerous as any sorcerer's.

Arthur looks away again and nods.

He still believes it to be the truth.

* * *

The first time Gwen says something with an odd look in her eyes, Arthur's heart breaks.

And for the life of him he can't help but remember walking into a room and seeing her locked in Lancelot's arms, kissing him passionately, with love in her eyes.

Arthur violently shoves the memory away and instead replaces it with _his_ Guinevere turning around in that lake and holding out her hand to him, asking him to forgive and trust her again in that one single gesture. He remembers going to her, the water an obstacle in his way that he pays no heed to; remembers how she threw her arms around him, the way she burrowed her head in his neck, the feel of her heartbroken tears as she cried against him.

He loves her with all his heart, and he will not believe that she would willingly betray him again.

It is yet another reason, on an already too-full list, of why he must put a stop to this nightmare that has become his reality.

* * *

“This has to end.”

Merlin looks at him and nods once; he doesn't ask for details and Arthur decides for once he's grateful that Merlin has always been able to see through him, “Then let's end it,” is all he says.

The plan they come up with is insane at best and suicidal at worst.

“I wanted to let her believe I was dead,” Merlin confesses at one point, “but then that didn't work out.”

“Why did you want that?” Arthur asks because this at least seems like a safer topic than anything else.

“Well they obviously know I have magic and I'll die to protect you,” Merlin answers with a shrug, “But now, I think it's better if we just act like everything is fine. That will throw them off—even if they think you remember what happened they won't understand why I'm still alive and here serving you.”

“And not injured,” Arthur points out.

Merlin nods, “That might throw them off. And in the meantime, I'll spread rumors that I might be heading off on a journey soon—I won't leave, of course,” he hurriedly assures Arthur who sags in relief, “but again they won't be sure what I'm planning.” Abruptly he smiles darkly, “And if they do guess I'm just as injured as they think I am—which I'm hoping they will—and I'm hiding it for some reason, they'll be arrogant. They'll think they can get rid me easily.”

Arthur shivers and shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of that thought.

“But they'll be wrong,” Merlin states with a confidence that Arthur tries to share.

Trying to manipulate Morgana and trapping her is the only way they can possibly survive this, and to do that they have to wait and give her the perfect opportunity to destroy Camelot. Let her come and then, only then, can Arthur keep his kingdom safe.

Under any other circumstances Arthur would stab a million holes through it, but not now. Not with Merlin's magic, not with Gwen's life in the balance, not while his entire kingdom unknowingly depends on him to save them.

Now, the only thing Arthur would change is the timetable, but Merlin has cautioned him to patience and if Merlin can say that while his skin still burns with fever and his wounds _still_ haven't healed then Arthur can be patient as well.

* * *

It takes too long.

Merlin sometimes wakes them up and serves them throughout the day, his eyes ever watchful. But other days George serves them, much to Gwen's confusion, and Arthur won't really see Merlin— besides glimpses of him throughout the long days—until after Gwen falls asleep. Then he sneaks into the antechamber where Merlin has cast some sort of spell to keep the sounds inside so nobody can eavesdrop on them and only for a short time before he goes back to his wife.

The days Merlin wakes him up are the days where Arthur spends a great deal of his time watching Merlin, worried about when it will all be too much, when Merlin will succumb to his injuries. Or when Merlin will be fed up with it all and accuse Arthur of all the deeds he has done and leave him alone.

The days when he doesn't see Merlin are the days when Arthur can't breathe, when he aches from the inside and he's so cold, but he can't say anything because he can't let anyone know that he isn't alright.

He just wants it to all end, wants his kingdom to be safe and sound, wants to look at his wife and breathe easily, wants Merlin to not have to hide anything anymore.

But then, then Arthur will try to think about what comes after. After they defeat Morgana, after they're as safe as they ever are, after there's no more danger.

But for the life of him, Arthur can't imagine what comes _after_.

* * *

“Why is Morgana waiting?” Arthur growls angrily, hiding away all the hurt he can’t stop feeling, “Why doesn't she just attack and get it over with?”

“I don't know,” Merlin answers, his hands playing with a clean rag, “she has to know I'm waiting for her though—she could be using the time to throw me off balance.” Merlin sighs again—he does a lot of that these days—and tosses the rag to Arthur, “But there must be something more because she has to know the more time she waits, the more I'll heal.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow at him, “Really? Because I haven't seen much evidence of that.” None at all, if he's honest; but he doesn't like to dwell on those thoughts.

Merlin opens his mouth then snaps it closed without speaking. His eyes get that faraway look of his, “Maybe that's her plan,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” Arthur snaps dangerously, “I thought you said you would be fine?”

“I will be, but maybe she doesn't think so,” Merlin shakes his head then smiles, “something to think about at least.” Not something that Arthur wants to think about, but Merlin changes the subject, “Maybe, it’s more about the fear and doubt. The longer this goes on, the less we trust each other, the more cracks in the kingdom appear.” 

Arthur looks at Merlin, pale and trembling and oh so, small, “It that’s the case, then it’s working.”

Merlin doesn’t respond to that only adds, “And she's not just waiting, though is she?”

“What do you mean?”

“She's not just gaining information now, she's using people, drawing suspicion to them. The attacks are getting more aggressive.”

Arthur nods because he knows it's true; where before it had been hard to tell what was just a bad day and what was her control, it was beginning to be easier to spot the differences.

Fights that are barely stopped before serious damage can be inflicted. Blows that should never have been thrown. Words that should never have been uttered. So far there hasn't been too many, but the incidents are becoming more frequent.

“Maybe she's trying to draw us in,” Arthur suggests, “the more this goes on, the angrier I get.”

“And the more mistakes we might make,” Merlin finishes. “Well, we'll just have to be smarter than she is,” he grins and there's an almost feral look to it. Maybe Arthur should be bothered by it; instead, he finds a smile on his own face, dangerous enough to match it.


	9. Chapter Nine

Each day that passes with nothing to show for it leaves Arthur furious. 

He burns with the need to do something. He needs to save his people, needs to combat the enemy, needs to keep his lands safe. He needs to _do_ something, anything.

Anything except sit back and watch, waiting for the right time to strike. Anything except simply analyzing everything everyone around him does or says. Anything except continue to speculate on why Morgana was waiting, on when she would fully attack, on what her plans might be.

Anything except watch Merlin; he doesn't get worse, but he doesn't get any better either and when Arthur confronts him about it he simply shrugs and says it's just a matter of time before he gets better.

Anything except _wait._

“Why are you so good at this?” Arthur growls at Merlin, his hands clenched into fists, anger burning through him like an inferno that cannot be quenched while he watches Thomas disappear into his house. The villager had almost hit his child in a fit of unreasonable rage before Arthur had stopped him. But Thomas' anger had disappeared as soon as Arthur had grabbed his fist and confusion had settled in. And the guilt. Apologies had poured from his mouth like an overturned bucket and he wept in shame when he looked at his little girl.

Merlin brushes his hand against Arthur's fist; a brief touch that Arthur almost thinks he imagines except for the burning heat of Merlin's skin, a reminder that they're in public and Arthur needs to hold it all together. “Just a little longer, Sire.”

Arthur can't contain the anger boiling inside but he heeds Merlin's caution. Instead of futilely fighting an enemy he can't see he heads to the training fields and demolishes the training dummy while Merlin disappears to wherever he goes when he's not with Arthur.

“Everything alright there, mate?” Gwaine asks and though he's smiling there's concern in his eyes.

He's not the only one. Leon who is supervising some new trainees keeps shooting glances over at him and Percival watches him carefully from the sidelines as if ready to step in at any moment and even Mordred is looking his way with a frown on his face.

And Arthur is tempted to tell them everything. To let his guilt and his doubts and anger and his shame slip out into their waiting ears. To confess everything; every bruise and broken bone and lie and every drop of blood that Merlin has shed because of him. For him. To just let it all go.

Arthur opens his mouth, ready to give up then snaps it closed. He can't betray Merlin. He can't let them know. Arthur promised he wouldn't. He can't release this burden into the air. Not yet, at least. Not until Merlin says he can.

“Yeah, everything's fine,” he says gruffly but the concern in Gwaine's eyes only grows so Arthur adds, “It's just this visit with Lord Elynard coming up.”

Which isn't true at all because Lord Elynard isn't a problem in Arthur's book; he had always loved Arthur as a child and had been one of Camelot's avid supporters since Arthur's coronation but it's the first thing that he thinks of and he doubts Gwaine really knows by name which lords actually love Arthur and which ones only pretend to.

“You'll win him over,” Gwaine replies, his shoulders relaxing a bit, a mischievous smile on his lips, “Or at the least, I'll win him over for you.”

“No thanks, I'd like him to still be able to walk in a straight line when he leaves,” Arthur answers dryly.

“Ah, you're no fun!”

Arthur laughs. It's not enough, he knows, they're still be watching him carefully, but he hopes it will keep them all safe a bit longer.

* * *

“I've had to learn my own share of patience,” Merlin confides in him that night, his eyes refusing to meet Arthur's which means that he's sharing something he's not proud of or something Arthur won't like. Or both.

Arthur frowns at him trying to understand where this is coming from, but Merlin continues before he can ask. “You asked me why I'm good at waiting this afternoon. The truth is...I'm not good. I want to get out there and put a stop to whatever is going on. I want to keep everyone safe and alive and if I can do that before they even realize something is wrong then even better,” Merlin shakes his head and smiles that sad smile that Arthur is starting to see so much of—that sad smile he thinks he hates, “I want to do something besides waiting just as much as you do.”

His hands clench the same way Arthur's had in the town and Arthur follows the movement, wary of interrupting whatever Merlin has on his mind.

“But I've had to learn to wait. Sometimes jumping into a situation can only lead to more danger. And death,” he shrugs and tries to smile lightly but it doesn't touch the darkness in his eyes, “Sometimes, no matter how hard it is, waiting is the best option.”

Arthur wants to tell him he understands, wants to comfort him, to remind him that he's not alone this time but he doesn't. Nothing he can say will be of any comfort. So instead he nods and lets the matter drop.

For now.

* * *

Arthur hadn't been worried about Lord Elynard's visit. He should have been.

It started like any other visit; Camelot's finest nobles and knights greet them in the courtyard. Merlin, who insists on being there despite Arthur's protests, stands behind the king, a picture of a perfect and healthy servant. The dinner goes well, Arthur even enjoys the conversation and Gwen seems to get along with Lady Michelle. The guests retire early to their rooms, weary from their long journey without any arguments taking place.

The negotiations go well, there being not much to negotiate. Arthur spends most of his time simply conversing with Elynard and discussing some of the fine print of the treaty. Elynard signs the papers and suggests, like always, going on a hunt to celebrate their continued alliance. And Arthur like he always does—though this time he has a horrible vision of Merlin dying while he is away—agrees.

Which, according to Merlin, was an absolutely ridiculous thing to do.

In all fairness he also says he's an idiot for not being there to talk Arthur out of agreeing to such an idiotic plan. He says a lot about it actually; interspersing a dozen variations of 'prat' and 'clotpole', he complains about the lack of wisdom and did Arthur really think hunting was the best option right now all without taking a breath.

It's the most animated Arthur's seen him since before he had been tortured and he listens to it all with fond annoyance. And when eventually Merlin stops talking in favor of simply glaring at him, Arthur asks calmly enough, “Okay, so why shouldn't I go hunting—like I always do with Lord Elynard?”

Merlin looks at him in shock then bursts out, “Well, I don't know! Maybe because Morgana who wants to hurt us and most certainly kill us, is out there controlling people's minds! Maybe because she or anyone of her supporters could have slipped in with Elynard's people and is waiting to ambush you on your traditional hunt! Maybe because even if they didn't come with them, somebody wants to kill you, can use literally anyone to do it and a hunt is such perfect time to do it, don't you think!”

Okay.

So, Arthur should maybe have possibly thought this through a little bit more but in his defense he was just trying to keep things as normal as possible like he was supposed to. Should it have occurred to him this was a trap? Absolutely. A king should always consider such things before they agree to anything, but Arthur feels like his lapse is justified. Not that he thinks Merlin will see it that way.

“Well, I'll just be careful, of course,” he says, his mind jumping ahead. He'll have to watch everyone at all times. He won't be able to trust his knights or servants because any one of them could be taken over at any time. He'll have to—

“Unless we just wanted to make it any easier on them,” Merlin interrupts sarcastically, “Of course, we'll have to be careful, Arthur!”

“ _I_ will be careful. _You_ are, of course, not going,” Arthur points out sternly.

Merlin cocks his head, “Excuse me?”

“Merlin, just because you use your—your magic to hide all your various injuries away and just because you smile and pretend everything is fine does not make you alright!” Arthur's voice rises as he talks because he can't stop thinking about Merlin coming and dying and all because Arthur had agreed to this stupid hunt, “You can't go because you're dying!”

“And you might die if I don't go!” Merlin growls, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“And you might die if you do go!”

“It won't matter if I live and you die,” Merlin declares quietly and Author swallows at the loyalty, ready to combat his statement—now who's being ridiculous?—but Merlin keeps going before he has a chance, “And if I go and die it will be worth it as long as you live.”

The statement stops Arthur in his tracks. It's not that Merlin hasn't said such things before, hasn't meant them before; it's that now Arthur knows the depth of Merlin's loyalty. Knows that Merlin could be so much more than he chooses to be and yet still he is willing to die in place of Arthur. It's that now Arthur has to wonder how many times Merlin _has_ thrown himself in death's hold just so Arthur would live. It's that now Arthur wonders how little Merlin's life means to himself and how much value he puts in his king's and why.

“That's not true,” Arthur whispers, his voice threaded with horror. “Merlin, that is not true.”

“Arthur, you are worth far more than my life.”

Arthur has had plenty of opportunities over the years to imagine having to live with Merlin's death on his conscience—not because his hand wielded the weapon, he'd never imagined such a horrible future—but a weapon aimed at Arthur yet instead found Merlin's body. A poison meant for Arthur's lips that was swallowed by his servant instead. A doracha that screamed for Arthur's sacrifice and found Merlin's light. A mace that pierced Merlin's heart. An arrow. A fire. A dagger. It didn't matter however it ended; Arthur still couldn't accept a life where he had to live with the knowledge that Merlin had died _for_ him.

“And you, Merlin, are worth far more than my own life!” Arthur snaps and he can hear the cloying emotion in his voice.

So does Merlin.

He stares at Arthur in disbelief, his own voice silent. Then he closes his eyes and bottles emotions Arthur will never understand away, “I'm not, Arthur, I am really not. Please, don't ever put that to the test.”

“It is true and you're not going,” he knows Merlin can be stubborn, but this is one argument he has no intention of losing. “I will not risk your life,” And then because Merlin still looks defiant, he adds with as much sincerity as is in him, “I _can't_ lose you.”

* * *

Arthur goes on the hunt. Merlin does not.

He can find no solace in the victory because he is suddenly remembering all the other times that he's ordered Merlin to stay behind and Merlin disobeying and following anyway. Maybe, he should have let him come just so he knows where he is but that sounds too much like paranoia and Arthur pushes it away.

He still worries.

The hunt holds no enjoyment for him, not today. Today, he is more focused on keeping track of every weapon around him, where everyone is, any semblance of an ambush. He focuses on words and looks more than the tracks and sounds of the deer they're hunting. And still, still he must smile and laugh and converse and pretend that there is nothing wrong.

There's a moment when Arthur senses that he's being watched and when he looks behind, Mordred has his crossbow trained on his back.

Arthur narrows his eyes, tenses in readiness, prepares his defense, tries to figure out how he'll fight without hurting the young knight.

It's the longest moment of his life while he waits for his knight to take the killing shot. But the moment ends as suddenly as it had begun, and the weapon is lowered. Mordred shakes his head in confusion, his eyes dark with tension. “Sire?”

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.

The hunt can't end fast enough but for all that they end up with a nice catch and if anybody notices Arthur's tenseness, they don't comment on it.

When they finally return to the citadel it's night and Guinevere only stays awake long enough to kiss him goodnight and congratulate him with a sleepy smile before she falls into bed.

But when Arthur closes the door to the small room Merlin isn't there.

Arthur's heart stops.

“Merlin?” He calls, hoping that his servant is there just hiding behind an illusion—yet another mask of his—even though he hasn't been since Arthur panicked the last time, he hadn't found him.

There's no answer.

Arthur falls to his knees, struggling to breathe. He's cold all over and he can feel everything crashing down around him.

Had Merlin followed him today? Had Merlin fallen along the way because he couldn't keep his balance when he was healthy let alone when he was dying? He recalls Mordred being enchanted—had Merlin done something then? Had Merlin _died_ saving Arthur and he didn't even know?

_Pull yourself together,_ he commands himself, but his limbs won't obey him, _Merlin needs you._ And he has to get up now because he has to help Merlin...

But how can he even find him? How can he even begin to search for him? He can't even have the knights and the guards help because Morgana is still using them as weapons and might just kill Merlin even if they do somehow find him.

Panic catches hold of Arthur and he can't move.

Can't think.

Can't breathe.

He might have stayed like that until he passed out, until death found him, but the door opens almost silently and he's aware of a hand falling on his shoulder, “Arthur?”

And he can move again; he gulps in lungful’s of air and stumbles to his feet, turning to grip Merlin's arms with shaking hands to prove that he is there and breathing and real.

“Arthur!” Merlin has streaks of blood in his hair and mud underneath his nails, but he looks at Arthur in concern. “Arthur, it's okay. Just sit down, let's just sit for a moment. Can you do that?”

He nods numbly but he doesn't let go of his servant; he can't yet, can't force himself to move his frozen hands away lest Merlin disappear like a dream. They slide to the ground and Merlin croons to him gently, as if to a small child, “Arthur, it's alright, I'm here. I'm here, I'm sorry, I meant to be back before you did but you know how I am—I lost track of time,” his voice is soft and soothing and he holds Arthur's gaze with bright eyes, “But I'm here now, it's alright. I'm not going anywhere,” his fingers slowly start to move back and forth on Arthur's arms, a calming distraction that Arthur focuses on gratefully.

Arthur isn't sure how long this goes on before he's finally able to push words past frozen lips, “You followed me.”

Merlin smiles; it's not bright or sad or any of the other complicated emotions he normally puts into his smiles, it's more surprise than anything, “I wanted to. I even planned on it,” he admits with no shame, “and then I didn't.” He looks rather annoyed and stunned as he says this, as if he can't quite believe it himself.

“There's mud on your hands.”

Merlin glances down not at his own hands but at Arthur's still gripping Merlin's arms and he doesn't hesitate to reply, “I did leave the citadel, but I didn't follow you. You ordered me not to—”

“You've disobeyed me before,” Arthur points out, not sure what to believe. He wants to believe what Merlin is telling him, but he remembers that Merlin has lied to him the entire time they've known each other without Arthur even suspecting.

“I have but this time...well, it's different now, isn't it?” Merlin shrugs, “I won't deny that I wasn't going to but...you said you trusted me, and I can't—I won't break that trust, Arthur. Not again. And you commanded me not to go with you. So, I didn't. But the longer you were gone the more I worried and the more worried I got the more I needed to find you. I—I had to do something to distract myself so that I wouldn't follow you.”

“What did you do?”

“I picked some herbs with Gaius. And if you think I'm lying—I don't blame you, of course, how can I?—but you can ask Gaius and the guards at the gate. We stayed close enough to the citadel that there are lots of witnesses.”

“And the blood?”

At that Merlin just shrugs helplessly, “Oh that, one of the villagers had an accident and I was helping Gaius tend to him. That's actually why I was so late, and I wasn't...well, _here_.”

Arthur won't deny that he's tempted to seek out some of these people Merlin has mentioned but something about the way Merlin says all of this makes Arthur certain he won't. Something resigned. And not for the first time Arthur knows that Merlin regrets his years of deception as much as Arthur does, if not more.

But he has to be sure. “You just let me go?”

Merlin sighs, again, his eyes full of that sadness that Arthur has only ever caught glimpses of, “Look Arthur, I can't really believe it myself but yes, I let you go on this stupid hunt all by yourself. Because you're right. You need me to help you find Morgana and stop her—so dying before then won't be helpful to you.”

That isn't what Arthur had said at all and he needs to find the words to say that and make Merlin understand what he had meant but Merlin, heedless or oblivious to Arthur's horror, just goes on, “And I wanted to show you that trust goes both ways. So... I trusted you to take care of yourself. And I stayed behind.”

And Arthur believes him.

Merlin may have lied and misled and deceived Arthur but now, now that he is able to tell Arthur the truth, now that he is _free_ to tell Arthur everything, he isn't going to treat that lightly. Merlin will treat it like a precious gift that might break at any moment.

Just as Arthur will not risk Merlin's life, Merlin will not risk Arthur's trust again.

Arthur finally drops his hands. Merlin is here and he isn't going anywhere.

“And you came back—you didn't need me after all!” Merlin says this brightly with pride shining from his eyes as if Arthur had done something amazing instead of simply survived.

“I did,” he says, shaking his head—he'll always need Merlin.

“I do,” he adds at the same time that Merlin apologizes, “I'm sorry I wasn't here, I really did mean to be.”

“I know. I was just scared,” he didn't used to admit to his feelings so easily, he thinks, but it feels wrong to keep them in, he's not sure he even knows how to when it comes to Merlin or Gwen.

Merlin grips his shoulder and promises in a determined voice, “We're going to be fine, Arthur.”

And Arthur does his very best to believe him in this as well.

* * *

“Sire, might I have a word?”

_Oh no, not again._ But Arthur plasters on a smile and gestures for Mordred to walk with him, “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering, Sire, about Merlin,” Mordred begins hesitantly, glancing over at him with an unreadable expression, “He seems...unwell but nobody else appears to be worried about him.”

Arthur isn't sure if there's actually a question in there; he takes a deep breath, trying to mask the tension he can feel spreading through his body, trying to pretend that everything is normal, trying to pretend that he isn't terrified himself of Merlin's condition, “We're not.”

Mordred stills and looks at him in surprise, “I'm sorry, Sire, but I think he might be ill!” he protests.

And normally Arthur would be pleased by him noticing and caring enough to bring the matter to Arthur but...but there's something almost insincere in Morderd's piercing gaze and while he knew the other knights thought Merlin was tired they hadn't said anything about him being 'unwell'. And none of them, and certainly not Gwaine would be quiet about it if they thought otherwise.

And Merlin didn't trust Mordred.

“Believe me,” Arthur says flippantly, “if Merlin were sick, he'd never shut up about it—he'd be driving me crazier than he already is—he's not one to suffer silently.”

Arthur has no idea why he says this—it's not even true, quite aside from whatever injuries Merlin has sustained in protecting Arthur behind his back, Merlin was not prone to complaining about being unwell but instead pretended it away as if not talking about it made it not real. Which is a bit funny really, because Merlin had no such qualms about complaining over all the little things in life but apparently his own health was not something he put much stock in. But Arthur doesn't like this conversation and he doesn't trust Mordred's intentions and while it had started out because of Merlin, he's beginning to have his own doubts about Mordred.

“Isn't he?” Mordred murmurs almost as if to himself but Arthur can't quite let it go.

“And you're such a close friend to Merlin now, are you?” he asks with a raised eyebrow and steel in his voice.

Mordred doesn't look away but his jaw clenches and Arthur can see his hands form into fists, “No, I just...I was worried about him. That's all. Sire.”

“Trust me,” Arthur replies, “There's nothing to worry about. Merlin is fine.” 

* * *

“Gaius knows something is wrong,” Merlin informs him while Arthur looks at his back, trying to decide how to treat the lash marks that are still red and swollen even after all this time.

Arthur frowns; the words washing over him more than anything because Merlin tends to talk a lot when Arthur messes with his back and he isn't certain if it's to distract himself from the pain or if he's trying to remind himself that Arthur won't hurt him anymore. Arthur will never ask him that though; he is not strong enough to face the answer, whatever it may be.

He looks over at their supplies; fully stocked because Merlin brings herbs and bandages and other things that Arthur still isn't sure what are back with him. Or at least, Arthur assumes so, they're there at night when he comes in though he's never actually seen Merlin carry them in. It's not the amount of supplies he's worried about though it's that they don't seem to be working.

When they're alone and Merlin lets the illusion fall away; Merlin's skin still burns like fire, his eyes are bright with fever, and his skin is still a deathly shade of white. His injuries still break and bleed and reek of infection. He's still dying no matter how okay he seems to be.

And Arthur is scared, so scared because he's certain that Merlin is only keeping himself alive through his magic—and Arthur will accept it just for that alone—but what happens when it runs out? When he gets too tired to keep a hold of it? What happens if Merlin's magic gets distracted? What happens when Morgana reveals herself and Merlin has to fight?

Is Arthur even helping him or just prolonging his misery?

“He talks about it when I'm with him,” Merlin continues, oblivious to Arthur's distracted thoughts, “Not about me—I don't think he suspects anything there. Just, he's started to notice odd things around too—not as much as you but a few people here and there. From I can put together, it's not all at once. It's just one person at a time and never for long.”

Arthur spreads some salve that Merlin had earlier mixed together over the marks and Merlin hisses in pain then rushes on, “Just like you though, they don't remember the things they've said or did and if they do, it's like through a haze. Like they were dreaming and aren't quite sure what's real from what I can tell. I'm not really sure how much they're aware of—it's probably for the best—” he cuts off with a gasp and Arthur has seen this enough to snatch his hands away immediately.

He instinctively takes a step back, tries to put distance between himself and Merlin—not because he's afraid of what Merlin will do to him but because he can never again forget that it was his hands that had inflicted these wounds.

Merlin takes several deep breaths; forces his muscles to relax; opens his eyes again. When he's gained control of himself once more, he gestures to Arthur, “It's okay now, I'll be fine,” he mutters in a tense voice.

Arthur knows enough not to argue. He steps forward and continues spreading the ointment with shaking hands.

“Anyway, I have Gaius telling me what he can. And the knights and the servants.”

Arthur can't say he's even surprised by that snippet of information, “Is that where you run off to when you're not with me?” he manages if only to keep Merlin talking.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Merlin replies, his voice getting weaker the longer his back is exposed to the open air, “But, if you're wondering, they haven't noticed anything odd about you.”

Arthur pauses, “That can't be, they're worried about me—I can tell.”

“Well, yeah, but I told them I was handling that—it's nothing to do with what's going on,” Merlin huffs as if he thinks Arthur should have known that already, “I'm pretty certain they believe me.”

“And why would you do that?” Arthur whispers angrily though not for the reasons he should be. Not because of the lies Merlin must have told but more because he suspects Merlin's reasoning behind the deception.

Merlin twists so he can look at him, ignoring the pain from his bruised neck, “Because I don't want her to know that you're aware of what's going on any more than they do. I want her to be surprised when you know just as much as I do”

Arthur stares at him then gently pushes him back down so he can continue his treatment, “And you're certain she’s working on her own?” He decides to say instead of all the other words that want to tumble out.

Merlin hesitates then nods, “Morgana's the only one I know of that would go through such lengths and take so much time to destroy us like this—slowly and with such prejudice. And she's powerful enough to do it—all she needs is the right spell.”

“Do _you_ know the spell she's using?” Arthur asks incredulously and though he tries to keep the revulsion he feels out of his voice it leaks through anyway. It's not something he's really thought of, just what type of magic Merlin knows and uses. Does Merlin use the dark types of magic—and how far Arthur's come, because a few years ago he would have said all magic was dark—but no, no, he can't imagine Merlin using such things to hurt people just because he has the power.

But to protect Arthur? He has no trouble imagining Merlin turning to that for him.

Merlin who must surely feel the tense muscles in Arthur's hands, must hear the horror in his voice doesn't curl up in shame, he only shakes his head. “No, I don't know the spell she's using.”

And Arthur can't help his sigh of relief, can't help but sag from the sudden burden lifting, can't help but smile because, of course, Merlin doesn't know how to use such dark magic.

“But I think I know the type of spell it is—I did actually read about it in a book this time—and that's why she's limited to one person at a time,” he pauses for a moment, “that's something we can use to our advantage.”

“You seem quite certain.”

Merlin shrugs, “Well, we have to be sure,” then his voice darkens into something more prophetic and Arthur wonders if he's even aware of the change, “I have a feeling we won't have to wait much longer.”

And though he wants this to be over, though he still burns with the need to do something, Arthur can't help but shiver.


	10. Chapter Ten

Merlin was right.

The end to this nightmare comes rushing closer and closer and now, while Arthur stares between his most trusted knights, his wife, his councilors he just wishes it could be over already. Wishes he didn't have to do this, wishes he knew if they'll live through this, wishes he knew how to pick up the pieces if they do somehow survive.

But only for a moment; then his sword clashes against Gwaine's and he does his best to just keep breathing _now_ and tries not to inflict lasting damage on any of his people.

Gwaine stumbles and Arthur barely has time to turn and meet Percival's lunge before his weapon can embed itself into Arthur's back. They circle each other, swords meeting in a deadly array of force.

It's harder than any fight Arthur has ever been through; harder than the griffin who couldn't be felled by their swords, than the dragon who breathed down fire, than the armies who couldn't die. It's harder because these are his people; he loves them and he would rather die than hurt any one of them.

It's harder because while he must hold back his strength, they fight with all the hatred and fury of Morgana Pendragon. Because he cannot lose himself in the battle, because at any moment they are themselves again and are no longer his enemy but his friends once more.

It's harder because he cannot bear to live with himself if he hurts them.

So, he watches carefully as his sister jumps from friend to friend turning them into weapons against the very man they vowed to protect. And he blocks and he defends, and he does his best to stay alive.

He can't stop them all. There's a cut on his leg he didn't block in time and his head is ringing from where Geoffrey threw a vase that Arthur hadn't been fast enough to duck underneath. At least one, probably more of his ribs are broken from when Leon had thrown him against another knight and Percival had been there to catch him and crush him until his chest had started to cave in before he'd manage to free himself.

It had just been a normal council meeting when Morgana struck; she'd started with Gwen as her puppet, the only warning a malicious smile that wasn't hers before she'd slammed a knife into Arthur's hand, pinning him to the round table.

Then the nightmare had truly begun.

Arthur's been waiting for it, Merlin and he have discussed when and where it would happen, have tried to come up with reasons for why she was waiting to attack. But now, now that he is up against his councilors and his knights and his _wife,_ now that Morgana is no longer waiting, Arthur knows he is not prepared. That no amount of time could have prepared him for this.

And of course, of _course,_ it's a day that George had woken him up and Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur's on his own in a room full of weapons he has no defense against.

He'd tried knocking them out but apparently the enchantment kept them conscious no matter how hard he hit them; he'd found that out the hard way when George had reappeared in front of Arthur with a knife that managed to find its way into Arthur's arm.

Arthur can't hold them all off; not like this, not when he's barely fighting, and he knows that this is what Morgana wants. She wants him to suffer and die at the hand of someone he loves and trusts or he will kill them. Either way, she wins.

She thinks there is no other way.

Morgana is wrong.

She has to be because Merlin had promised that everything would be alright.

Gwen comes at him, hatred twisting her beauty into something ugly, a sword in her more than capable hands.

“Guinevere, please? It's me, it's Arthur!” he tries though he knows it's useless. Knows that his words will fall on the wrong ears.

“Oh, I know it's you, _King Arthur_ ,” Morgana says through Gwen's lips in Gwen's voice and Arthur feels another wave of fury slam through him.

But his anger has nowhere to turn. He will not strike his wife down no matter who is in her head and what words spew out of her mouth and what wounds her hands inflict on him.

“Do you like how it feels? To be so utterly betrayed by the people you love?” she keeps talking but Arthur is barely listening; he has heard this spill of blame too many times to pay it any more heed.

“You made your choice, Morgana.”

Gwen's face contorts into something monstrous and she snarls out the next words, “So did Guinevere and it wasn't you, was it?”

Arthur screams in rage.

His hands clutch his sword hard enough he can feel the bones beginning to crack and break, but he doesn't raise it against her. Doesn't give Morgana the satisfaction that she craves so much.

Arthur will not hurt the people he loves. Not again.

Guinevere leaps at him and Arthur jumps backward right into Leon who instinctively steadies him but in the next second clamps his hands painfully around Arthur's arms, pinning him in.

He waits for Guinevere, for Gaius, for anyone to come and finish him off while he can't move his arms enough to slash anyone with his sword, but no one comes. Right, Morgana can only control one at a time.

So, he bucks upward, manages to hit Leon's head with his own, breaking the hold on his arms. He raises his sword ready to hit him again, trying to incapacitate him, and barely manages to pull back when he sees the blankness in Leon's eyes. Arthur whirls around backing up against the wall so he can try to find where Morgana will strike next.

He can't find her.

He can't see any hatred or fury or threat. He sees only an uncertain blankness as if they are all sleepwalking and are uncertain of where they are or of what was going on around them.

Arthur takes the time to draw in air, stretches his taut muscles, tries to understand why she would stop now.

Lord Aaron blinks and there's a darkness in his eyes and a knife embedded in the wall beside Arthur's head. He grabs it so that it can't be used against him later.

“Oh, Arthur, you won't win.” Gwaine singsongs.

“You _can't_ win.” Gaius continues.

“I can keep this up all day long!” Percival chimes in.

“Yeah, so can I.” Arthur growls and throws himself out of the way as the door slams open and a spear flies through the air.

And then everything goes up in flames.

Not literally, at least Arthur doesn't _think_ so because he can't feel any heat, but he can't see anything but gold, gold, gold. Instinctively he hits the floor and crawls away—anywhere but where he is because Morgana will be converging on where she last saw him.

When the room darkens enough to see again, there's still specks of gold dancing in his vision, but Arthur ignores them, trying to find out what victim Morgana is hiding in now. Most of them in the room are just standing there, looking at themselves in confusion but Leon's eyes are jumping everywhere as if looking for someone.

He finds Arthur.

They stare at each other for a brief moment; Leon jerks forward; Arthur plants his feet.

And Gwaine punches Arthur in the chest.

The blow sends him to his knees but by force of habit—from a lifetime of training, Arthur keeps his sword in his hands.

He can't breathe.

Gwaine's mouth curls up in a vindictive smirk and he lashes forward again. Arthur tries to raise his hands to block it, tries to move but he's not fast enough. The blow hits him in the same spot—the same place where Percival had already weakened the bones—and Arthur hears a loud crack rend through the silence.

He tries to draw in a breath but all he can feel is his collarbone moving with every shaky heartbeat.

Arthur can't breathe at all.

Again, Gwaine raises his fist.

Arthur can't move for the pain exploding in his chest.

Gwaine pulls back his fist.

This blow will be the end of him. Merlin was wrong: they are not going to be alright. Arthur is going to die here and now.

Gwaine's fist comes at him and Arthur braces himself for the end, sorry for all the people he'll leave behind; sorry for the mess he's leaving his kingdom in; sorry for the guilt that his people will feel; sorry—

The final blow never lands. Gwaine's eyes flare gold then go blank and he drops to the floor, his hand still clenched in a tight fist.

Apparently, Morgana isn't done playing with him yet. Arthur struggles to breathe, refastens his grip on his sword, and lurches upright. He still can't breathe right, his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, and every move sends his collarbone rattling.

But he's not dead yet.

Gwen is there in front of him, she feints right but her weight is mostly to the left and Arthur recognizes this. He still brings his sword to the right because they're—Morgana and Gwen both are too good at this for him to know if she didn't want him to. The force of the swords clashing together makes him want to scream. He bites his tongue instead and keeps his sword raised. The taste of blood fills his mouth.

Then her eyes flash gold, go blank, and she drops to the floor.

_Finally!_ A wave of relief so intense he stumbles from the force of it that's followed by a wave of terror just as strong. _Merlin!_

Merlin is here. He has to be, or else Arthur would be dead right now.

Merlin is here. Merlin might die here.

_But Merlin is here._

And Arthur straightens his back and clenches his sword tighter.

Merlin's arrival helps tremendously, and it couldn't have come at a better time—except earlier, of course—because Arthur's body can only take so much abuse before his heart stops.

But Morgana always comes for Arthur.

She never gets in another hit, another throw, another injury. Whoever she is in comes at Arthur, and somehow Merlin destroys the enchantment, and they are lost to unconsciousness. He isn't just stopping Morgana's initial assault he’s taking out her weapons.

Eventually, there's only Arthur standing in the council room, surrounded by the unconscious bodies of his people.

* * *

Morgana appears in a whirlwind of lightning and rage throwing him back against the wall and for the life of him he can't keep hold of his sword and it flies across the room, useless to him now.

“No!” She screams and there's no hint of the woman he used to look up to, “No! You will be mine!”

He just looks at her in silence, and he realizes very suddenly that he no longer even loves her. He will always love who she used to be, will always respect the way she stood up for herself, will always miss her compassion and her strength and her bravery. He will always love Morgana, ward of Uther.

But Arthur hates Morgana Pendragon.

“Where are you, you coward?” she cries, her eyes running across the room looking for Merlin. “Show your face, you hypocrite!”

She could look all she wanted; she was never going to find Merlin. Not if Arthur had any say in the matter.

He's tempted to lunge at her, to drive his dagger through her body, to end this once and for all.

But... But Arthur is no fool, he won't get two steps before he's blasted against the wall by her magic. He won't get anywhere near close enough to wound her let alone kill her.

They are past the point of letting each other step close and trying to reach the past.

So, Arthur doesn't move towards her instead he walks away.

And because she is so wrapped up in her rage, in her temporary defeat; because she is prepared for Arthur's fiery rage, she has no recourse for the cold mask he has created for this moment.

Every step hurts, every breath reminds him how close to death's door he is, but he keeps walking. Three rooms down is how far he gets before suddenly she's there.

Not her body or maybe she is—it's hard to tell—it doesn't matter; she doesn't need her body to wreak havoc with his life.

But her mind is there with him.

Inside him.

For one split second he panics, no— _Merlin!_ No—wait, wait why is he panicking? There's no need to panic. No need at all.

Merlin will be here soon, and he'll take care of things. There's nothing to worry about, no need to think about the pain, no need to hold onto his dagger so tight, no need for such weapons at all.

Merlin will be here and then Arthur will take care of everything. Yes, that's right, everything will soon be fine.

Merlin had promised after all.

He waits; takes the time to just breathe and it seems like no time at all before there's hesitant footsteps behind him. He turns slowly, carefully, ready to attack but relaxes when he sees his servant standing a few feet away. Arthur puts away the dagger and grins unsteadily, “Merlin!” He was still alive, still here, still willing to come to his king.

“Sire.”

“Is it over?” he can't help but whisper, hoping against all hope that Merlin would declare this battle over. It will mean more coming from his voice than anyone else's.

“She'll be back,” Merlin replies. He stays still, his eyes dark with an emotion Arthur doesn't understand, his hands hang loosely at his sides.

Arthur has never thought he looked so dangerous as he does now.

“But for now, is it over?” he begs. He _needs_ this to be over, needs things to go back to the way they should be, needs everything to be okay like Merlin promised.

Merlin nods once, “I think so.”

Arthur feels the tension inside him lessening then cries out in pain. Now that the battle is over, now that the rush of danger has passed his body reminds him he needs help and he needs it now. He falls to his knees. “Arthur!” Merlin rushes over to him reaching him before Arthur even finishes falling. “Arthur! It's alright, we'll figure this out.”

Merlin slips to his knees in front of him, his eyes scouring for what needed done first, “Where does it hurt the most?”

“My chest,” Arthur whispers, “My heart,” his broken heart that has been torn to shreds by everyone he has ever loved and nothing Merlin can do will help him.

Merlin's hands are on his shirt, trying to see the damage, trying to fix what cannot possibly be fixed.

And the dagger slides so smoothly into Merlin's heart.

Merlin doesn't see it coming, doesn't feel anything, doesn't even have time try to stop it. Arthur leaves his dagger there; a testament to what happens to those who betrayed and lied and deceived.

Merlin's body falls forward and Arthur gently, so gently—because it's still Merlin, his servant and adviser and idiot and friend, it's _Merlin—_ lays him on the ground.

Arthur feels cold.

“Well, that's because you're dying,” he hears himself say. “And oh, how long I've dreamed of this day. No more Emrys. No more Arthur.” That's an odd thing for him to say, why would he say these things? “No more _Merlin,_ ” he says the last name with such derision and hatred that it throws him for a loop.

No more Merlin?

No, no that couldn't possibly be, no...

“And it's all your fault, Arthur Pendragon,” he tells himself.

All his fault. Yes, it was wasn't it, because Arthur has always trusted the wrong people and made the wrong choices and failed to destroy Camelot's enemies and protect his people. Yes, Arthur is to blame for everything.

Except...

Except, it _wasn't_ all Arthur's fault.

Because this nightmare that Arthur is living in, that has trapped him in guilt and shame and betrayal and death, this entire thing is all... It is all _Morgana's_ fault.

_She_ used Arthur's people as her spies. Wrecked havoc with their emotions. Used them to hurt others. Turned Arthur's people into her weapons.

_She_ chained Merlin up.

_She_ whipped Merlin until his back was a mess of open wounds.

_She_ carved lies into Merlin's skin.

_She_ broke Merlin's bones, felt the bones cave in beneath her and laughed at his pain.

_She_ cut Merlin up like some sort of twisted art piece.

_She_ choked Merlin until he couldn't breathe, until his neck was covered in bruises so thick you couldn't see the white of his skin.

_She_ branded Merlin a traitor.

_Morgana_ stabbed Merlin through the heart.

And Arthur? Arthur was never going to let her touch him again.

Never let her use his hands and his feet and his body and his words and his dagger to hurt those he loved. Arthur Pendragon would not be Morgana's weapon for a second more.

The world exploded.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Sight... Sound... Smell... Taste... Touch...

Nothing.

* * *

Sight... Sound... Smell... Taste... Touch...

Nothing.

* * *

Light—golden and bright and blinding. Sound—silence so thick he could hear it—no, no that couldn't be right, could it? Smell—coppery and metallic and red—but no, you couldn't smell colors, could you? Taste—something bad, a lot of it, something that tasted like...red. Touch—nothing...

Bright... Silence... Red... Bad... Nothing...

Blinding... Hurt... Red... Bad... Nothing...

And then the pain came.

It ripped him open, devoured him, left him empty; a hollow shell of a man who used to be.

“No! What have you done?” Ah, now there was sound that made sense. “Oh, Arthur. Don't you see I was giving you mercy?”

Mercy? Could he taste that too? Maybe he could touch it instead, that sounded better than touching nothing.

“But oh well, if this is what you wanted in your last moments, then who am I to deny you?”

_Who_ are _you?_ He wonders dreamily—dreamily, what a funny word. Did that make him a dream? He hopes he's a good dream, he doesn't want to be one of those other ones...what were they?

“Arthur? Open your eyes.”

A ba—the word is on the tip of his mind, he can feel it—oh good, that must mean he's not broken beyond repair if he can still feel.

“Open your eyes, brother, and see what you have done.”

He opens his eyes.

Arthur Pendragon screams.

It tears out of his throat and swallows the silence whole, envelops it so completely in a sound of pure loss.

_Nightmare._ That's the word he is looking for. Nightmare; that's what he's living in, what he has been living in, what he will always live in. Nightmare; that's what Morgana is, what she chose to become, what she has thrown herself into, mind and body and soul. Nightmare; that's the reality he's living in. Nightmare; that's what a world without Merlin in it is.

What his world has now become.

He's still screaming himself raw and he absently wonders if he'll even have a voice left when eventually Morgana completes her tale of death and betrayal.

Merlin's body—his _corpse_ lies right in front of Arthur. A dagger embedded in his heart. No breath left in his too still body. The warmth leaking out of him as quickly as the blood he no longer needed. His eyes were still open, wide in shock, but there was no humor or joy or laughter or _life_ within them now. 

And there never would be again.

_No_.

This couldn't be happening.

This _isn't_ happening.

Merlin had _promised._

“That's right, Arthur, you killed him,” Morgana laughs and there's more than a hint of madness in her eyes, “What I've tried to do and failed for years! But you, Arthur, _you_ succeeded! You should consider yourself talented—that's a man of prophecy you just murdered.”

No. No, Merlin couldn't be dead. It was as impossible as...the most impossible thing in the world. Merlin couldn't leave Arthur to fend for himself in this cruel, cruel world. He'd promised! Merlin couldn't possibly be dead. Not now, not ever.

“Oh yes, you did this. Serkats couldn't defeat him. The pyre refused to burn him. Poison wouldn't keep him away from you. Even my beautiful formorrah couldn't kill him.”

_No._

“Not even my sister could manage such a feat as this—not for lack of trying,” Morgana is laughing, gleefully and maniacally; reveling in her victory that couldn't be happening.

It _isn't_ happening.

“But you, Arthur Pendragon, have managed to defeat him. The only one who never betrayed you and you killed him in cold blood!”

_No_ , Arthur thinks again, definitively and knows without a doubt that this can't be because Merlin wouldn't let him do such a thing, wouldn't let him take such guilt upon himself.

“Are you sure, Morgana?” Merlin—Merlin _alive_ and _real_ and _here_ — asks in a voice as casual as if he were talking about the weather.

Morgana whirls around but Arthur doesn't look.

He doesn't need to.

“Did you really think I wouldn't expect this?” Merlin tsks, “After all this time, you're still just as naive as you always were.”

Arthur turns slowly around as Morgana looks frantically between Merlin, standing so innocently by the door—blood drips from his hand, and there's a gash on his face that hadn't been there before but his chest is void of any more damage and there is no dagger in sight—and Merlin's dead body—still gently laid out, blood pooling around Arthur's knees, the dagger still implanted in his heart.

“No! How is this possible?”

Merlin steps forward, “This? This is what's possible when you believe in someone other than yourself,” and while his voice is still so nonchalant his eyes blaze with a loyalty far stronger than any hatred Arthur's ever seen, “This is what's possible when you trust someone more than you trust yourself.”

He raises his hands and Morgana shrinks back; terror written in every line of her body, but defiance engraved in her eyes.

She hisses a spell, her eyes flash gold, and fire is hurled at Merlin. 

Merlin smiles—cold and dangerous and _terrifying_ —and his own eyes turn molten gold; the fire disappears into the air without damage and Morgana's eyes fade back to green. “Now, now, that's not the way you do it,” he murmurs as if correcting a child, “Would you like me to teach you how to really do it?”

“And risk hurting your precious king?” she asks sweetly and turns to him.

And Arthur's dagger slides so smoothly, so easily into her chest, cutting through skin and muscle alike. Blood drips from the edges, once again staining his hands red—always red...

She stares at him in shock then gasps out a laugh, “A dagger, do you really think _that_ will kill me, I am a hi—” Blood spills from her mouth. “I am a hi—priestess—”

Arthur just looks at her.

Morgana falls, panting for breath, desperately trying to grasp at magic that won't come to her call.

“Poison seems a fitting end for the life you chose, Morgana,” he answers her finally. It isn't just poison of course; they hadn't been certain regular poison would be able to kill her.

But Merlin's magic that had made the dagger shine so bright and feel so much heavier is strong. Stronger than even Morgana it seems.

“Why?” She gasps out, her hands reaching out to them as if even now, even after all her betrayals, and all the death she has caused they would still help her.

But Morgana's hands are stained with far more blood than even Arthur's. 

It's Merlin who answers as he comes to stand beside Arthur—a warm and real and breathing and _alive_ presence, “Because you're wrong, Morgana, and it's time to rid the world of your hatred.”

“But I—but I...deserve more—”

“No, you don't Morgana,” Arthur interrupts because he doesn't understand her even now, “this is exactly what you deserve.”

She raises her hands again, weakly shouts some words, her hands twitch towards the dagger in her chest.

Arthur moves faster.

The dagger slides out just as easily as it had entered. He looks into her eyes for the last time, “Why Morgana? Because you hurt my people,” he says then thrusts it down again.

The life fades from her eyes and Morgana Pendragon breathes no more.

* * *

It's over.

It's finally over. No more war. No more betrayal. No more death. No more Morgana.

It hardly seems possible, but he can see the evidence in front of him; shock and horror and fear written in her eyes that will never blaze with fire or passion or life again.

It's _over._

Arthur falls to his knees.

_Good,_ he thinks distantly, _now maybe my people can be safe at last._

“Arthur!” And Merlin is there—and it's just like before except this is _real_ and Arthur would _never_ hurt him. “It's okay, we'll be okay. I'll fix it, I promise,” Merlin rambles, like he always does and that's good. Arthur has always secretly loved it when words poured out of Merlin's mouth like rain from the sky; loved it when he just talks about anything and everything because he could; loved it when Merlin talked to him as Arthur and not as prince or regent or king.

It breaks Arthur's heart to know this will change.

“Don't...” he can't get the words out like he wants to. He can't breathe right; not with his collarbone rattling against his skin trying to break free with every movement, can't draw in enough air past his broken ribs—he almost doesn't want to because every time he does breathe in it _hurts_ more than he has ever imagined it could. But he has to tell Merlin now while there's still life left within him, “I don't want you to...to change.”

“Of course not, I never have, why would I start now?” Merlin mutters absently, his hands doing such horrific things to Arthur's body that he tries not to focus on them.

Merlin would change though, Arthur knows, when he breathed his last. Merlin's smiles would disappear, and his laughter would be shut away and his rambling would be stopped and his light, always so clear and bright, would fade and and...and Merlin wouldn't be _Merlin_ anymore.

Arthur wishes he could change that; what his death will do to those closest to him, to the kingdom—though he knows his Guinevere will rule with wisdom and fairness. “I want you...” he starts again, the words trickling out of his mouth along with blood, “to always be you.”

“Arthur, no! Don't you dare say goodbye to me!” Merlin orders and Arthur wonders how he can still sound so determined though he must surely know that nothing can save Arthur now. Not even Merlin and all his magic. “Not after everything, you can't leave me alone, you can't! You _won't_!”

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes, too tired to say anything else, too hurt to focus on what he wants to say, what he needs to say. He needs to tell Merlin he's sorry; for everything, for treating him the way he had, for hurting him, for not being stronger than he is, for leaving him. He needs to tell him thank you; for bringing peace at last, for staying with Arthur through everything, for helping him build this kingdom, for being Merlin.

But the world is fading before Arthur's eyes.

“Arthur, stay with me!” Merlin sounds so far away and that can't be—never that!—so Arthur forces his eyes to focus on his friend—blurry and shapeless and distant already—forces his arm—cold and heavy and trembling with pain—up, up, up to grip Merlin's head and yes, Merlin is still here, still holding onto Arthur, still trying to save him.

It's Arthur who's leaving; who's fading with every second that passes; Arthur who can hear his heart beating so loudly and knows with surety that they are his final heartbeats.

“I'm not going to let you die.”

But it's too late.

Arthur's hand falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: All recognizable dialogue is either directly taken from or sightly rephrased from 'The Diamond of the Day Part Two.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Arthur opens his eyes. 

All he can see is light, blue and gray and misty and it looks like a dream.

It must surely be a dream because Arthur is quite certain he had died. But he can feel his heart beating in his chest, strong and steady and very much alive.

His chest which doesn't hurt at all.

He can breathe right, for the first time in so long he'd forgotten what it felt like, no pain, no struggle to get past broken bones and freezing terror, no _pain_.

In fact Arthur doesn't hurt at all—except for deep, deep in his soul which is still tainted and broken and unworthy—he doesn't feel cold, doesn't even feel tired—rather, he feels rested as if he has slept for a long, long time; a thousand years passing while he slept—but that's impossible, of course.

He's _alright_.

Arthur turns his head to the right and is not surprised in the least to see Merlin there, where he always is, where he belongs.

Merlin doesn't look alright. He's sitting close to Arthur, his knees pulled up to his face and his arms hugging them loosely. He's pale and there is still blood staining his pale skin crimson and there's a long gash running down his face.

He looks ancient.

Which doesn't make any sense because his hair is still black, and his face is still young but it's there in his eyes which have always carried an old soul but it's different now. As if Merlin has lived ages longer than anyone else can have imagined, survived through atrocities worse than Arthur's nightmares, has _lived_ while everyone has died around him.

Arthur shivers at the thought but pushes it away because Merlin may look old and tired and _not okay_ but he's _alive_ and here and that's really all that matters.

And Arthur smiles.

“ _Arthur!_ ” Merlin breathes, breaking the silence with a whisper filled with relief and joy and love and so much happiness as if Arthur were the sun rising after a long night filled with the Doracha's screams.

“It's me,” he murmurs and his voice doesn't hurt at all, isn't even dry from lack of water, and it isn't hoarse from screaming himself raw. He sits up slowly, expecting all the hurt to come but there's nothing but a body that works without trouble, moves smoothly; moves and works without pain.

It shouldn't be possible.

But Merlin is here, sitting right there in front of Arthur and with him impossible seems to become a word relegated to the past.

Arthur looks around the room again and there's a vague familiarity about it, but he can't recognize it because it still looks unreal. There are no bodies—real or otherwise besides them and Arthur wonders about everyone else but he doesn't ask about them, doesn't say anything at all. He just sits there and relishes the feeling of breathing, breath after breath.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin says eventually, and it could have been hours or days or years later for all Arthur can keep track of the time. “I'm so, so sorry, Arthur.”

And these shouldn't be the first words they say to each other, because really what could Merlin possibly be apologizing for?

Arthur shakes his head to stop any more words that shouldn't be said from being uttered, “It's alright Merlin,” and maybe one day he will look back and laugh that these are some of the first words out of his mouth but right now it's all just too new and too fresh and he knows how important it is that he's saying these three words and _meaning_ them. 

“I should have been there,” Merlin replies softly, mournfully, “I should have stopped her before you were injured and dyi—” he cuts himself off with a strangled sound.

Arthur gently lays his hand on Merlin's shoulder—bony and cold and trembling beneath his palm—and offers what little comfort he can. It's not much he knows, because he has been there too many times in the dead of night facing the 'what if's'. 'What if I had been stronger, faster, better?' 'What if I had gotten there sooner?' 'What if I had been too late?' ‘What if I hadn’t been too late?’

“You came, that's all that matters,” Arthur eventually says because Merlin is just sitting staring at him while tears run down his cheeks.

Merlin only shakes his head in refusal.

Arthur thinks back to before even though he doesn't want to remember. The pain of every breath and every movement and every second. The sickening feeling of Morgana inside his mind, controlling his actions, and poisoning him with her bitterness. The horror and terror that had encompassed him in that one moment when he thought he had killed Merlin—permanent and forever. The hatred he felt for his sister and the all-encompassing relief when he realized that this was all finally over. The freezing cold and his fading heartbeats. The utter certainty that he was dead.

And further back when he was in control of himself and had to watch as his people tried to kill him while he was helpless to do anything to them or for them. The devastating fear that he would make a mistake. The rage he felt that she dared to use their people against their will. The certainty that he was going to die by Gwaine's hand and Morgana's intention.

And the all-consuming relief when Merlin saved him.

It was all so much, too much to take in and Arthur can't help but shiver again. He'd been so scared and so certain he was dead there in the council room but even then he hadn't believed that Merlin had abandoned him to his death; even as the minutes passed into an eternity of pain and fighting and certain death, he hadn't been surprised when Merlin came to his rescue.

So, Arthur doesn't let Merlin sit there and wallow in guilt that wasn't his to bear. “Who was it?” Merlin frowns at him in confusion and doesn't answer so Arthur elaborates, “Who was trying to kill me this time?”

Because really, that was the only reason Merlin wouldn't have been there sooner, wasn't it?

Merlin looks at him for a long moment before finally with a sigh he murmurs, “Mordred.”

Arthur turns away for the first time, bowing his head in a grief he recognizes all too well. Why does everyone turn against him? Why was his life full of betrayal after betrayal no matter how much he loved and trusted and gave them?

“I'm sorry,” Merlin says again, “I know you liked him.”

Arthur sighs because he always likes them, always _loves_ them and still they turn against him. But it's not Merlin's fault. “What happened?”

“Well, you know how I was having the servants and guards report to me—though not really in those words,” Arthur nods even while a smile turns his lips upward because Merlin is talking, rambling and giving more details than Arthur needs but it's so Merlin and Arthur loves it—loves that whatever has happened since hasn't torn this away completely. “Anyway, James came and found me. He said he saw Mordred disappearing into the tunnels even though the council meeting was supposed to start soon. He said Mordred just had a shifty look about him, so I followed him.”

“I had wondered where he was,” Arthur murmurs quietly. He can't say he's even surprised though.

“I knew it was probably a trap, but I didn't care. I knew we were running out of time and I've never trusted him. I just could never figure out how much he knew about this whole mess,” he pauses then, his eyes far away though his gaze is still locked on Arthur. Then he sighs wearily and continues, “he was, of course, waiting for me.”

And Arthur expected it but still he finds his muscles locking up, tensing in readiness to get up and stop Mordred before he can even _touch_ Merlin—and it's not logical or reasonable because Merlin is here and Mordred isn’t but he can't help himself.

“He wasn't alone, of course not, that would have been too easy. He knew I could take him without much effort even as sick as I am, so he had help. Some twisted creatures I've never seen before that looked like a mix between a wyvern and a wilddeoren except smaller. And there were a lot of the blasted things. And between them and Mordred, with his sword and magic—the _coward_ —I had a hard time just ending it.”

He sighs again, runs trembling hands through his hair, massages his neck for a moment, then shrugs as if shaking off the memories, “But then I could feel you were in trouble. I mean I knew it was a distraction to get me out of the way and it worked because of course I would follow _Mordred_ of all people, but it was more than that. I've been so focused on trying to make sure you get through the days I could feel you weakening,” another pause while he bites his lip and looks away for the first time as if ashamed. “I knew you needed me and so I had to finish the battle _now._ So I did what I had to, and in the end, I was the only one left standing. And I was _still_ almost too late.”

“But you weren't,” Arthur reminds him forcefully. Though things so easily could have been different, and Arthur isn't thinking about his own demise but what would have happened if Merlin hadn't been so focused on getting to Arthur instead of the battle he was fighting. Would he have won easier and quicker and unscathed? Or had needing to get to Arthur been Merlin's focal point getting him through the battle in the first place? Questions, Arthur supposes, he will never have answers for.

“Arthur, another second and you would have been dead, and it would have been _my_ fault!” Merlin shouts as if the words were being torn from him.

“Instead you saved me, Merlin,” Arthur replies softly. _And oh, how many times you've done this for me, and I've never even realized._ “You came in time and here we are. _Alive_.” He switches subjects before Merlin can argue with him more, “How did you break the enchantments?”

This makes Merlin look up at him again, “Honestly? Pure hope and sheer stubbornness that you weren't going to die,” he smiles ruefully, and Arthur relaxes at the sight, grateful that Merlin can still smile after all this time. “I know that's not exactly an answer, but I don't really know how else to explain it. That's how I use a lot of my magic actually, it just kind of comes to me. And I wasn't going to let Morgana kill you and certainly not by our friend's hands.”

There may not have been a lot of details in that answer, but the explanation was filled with power.

Power that should possibly terrify Arthur, that should remind him of Morgana and the havoc she caused for the fun of it, that should make him reconsider everything. But he doesn't because, yes, there was power in those four simple sentences but there was also loyalty and love.

And if Arthur didn't trust Merlin then he might as well just lay down, close his eyes, and not bother waking up again.

“And then?” he prods.

“Then...I knew I had to stay out of sight because you couldn't be distracted, and I needed to draw her out of wherever she's been hiding.”

This time when Merlin pauses there's a weighted silence full of a tension Arthur doesn't understand—perhaps never will—and when eventually Merlin continues he does so in a voice barely above a whisper and tears track down his face, “Arthur, I'm sorry. It's not that I didn't trust you—because I did and I do and I _always_ will it's just...I couldn't tell you the whole plan or give you all the information because...because sometimes you were _you_ and sometimes you were _her_ and I couldn't take the chance, not with your life and all of Camelot on the line,” Merlin sobs and in a broken whisper he pleads, “But it's not because I didn't trust you, please believe me, Arthur.”

“I do believe you. Of course, I believe you, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs and wraps his arms around Merlin, holding him carefully and yet firmly because this is Merlin and he's weeping for Arthur and he sounds so broken that Arthur can't imagine walking away, can't imagine even being angry with him even if there was a good reason to be and so far he hasn't heard one.

Merlin clings to him, his hands curling in Arthur's shirt, his tears falling on Arthur's neck; but Arthur just holds on tight and doesn't let go.

They stay like that for an eternity and when eventually Merlin's sobs fade to the occasional tear falling from his eyes, Merlin pulls back but keeps his hands fisted in Arthur's shirt—a physical reminder that they are both alive and here.

Merlin clears his throat, looks down at his hands, and continues his tale in a hoarse voice, “But that's why I didn't always let you tend to my wounds because I wasn't sure what she would do and why sometimes I refused to really talk to you and it's not because I was afraid of you, Arthur, it was always about her and I wasn't about to give her a speck of loyalty.”

And Arthur shivers because it all makes sense now except...he had had _no idea_ that Morgana was controlling him again and again. So many times and Merlin had never been able to say anything, had never shied away from him even though he _knew_ that the person who had tortured him was there right in front of him and yet he had never ever made a move against her or rather Arthur. And... how many other times, thoughts, and actions had Arthur not been in control and he never even knew. And never would.

There would never be any closure for this, no way to know how much was him and how much was her and there was nothing he could do to change that. And really, he should have expected it, should have wondered why she wouldn't be using him again, but the thought had never crossed his mind—or had it and he just couldn't remember because she had erased it?

“Why did you bother with me at all?” The question slips out before Arthur can filter it, can pull the words back because Merlin will always give him answers he doesn't understand at all and now isn't the time for this but the words are already out in the open air, waiting to be answered.

He expects the sort of things Merlin normally tells him; how he is destined to be the greatest king the land has ever known, how he is a good and just man, how he is _worthy._ But Merlin just looks at him with swollen and red eyes, tears still tracking down his face and mixing with the blood, and says gently and yet with conviction, “Because you're my friend and I didn't—I _don't_ want to lose you.”

Arthur can feel the tears in his own eyes, can feel the _emotion_ swell up in his heart till it's full to bursting, and his breath catches in his throat and he can't breathe. And for once, just this once, he pushes aside his doubts and his fear and his guilt and he lets himself _feel_ it. 

And it _doesn't_ _hurt._

He should say something, should somehow tell Merlin everything that he's feeling—except he's never been able to, never even been able to put it into clear thoughts so how can he possibly say the words he wants to?

Words have never been his strong suit but actions have so he throws his arms around Merlin again and crushes him against his chest and tries to tell Merlin that he's his friend and he's important and Arthur couldn't bear to live if anything happened to Merlin and that Arthur _cares_ for him.

“I can't lose _you_ , Merlin,” the words are muffled and slurred, buried in Merlin's shoulder, covered by Merlin's old, thin jacket and yet he knows as he has always known that his friend hears them.

Merlin holds onto him just as tightly and Arthur isn't sure who's comforting who—but it's never been about such things, because in the end they are both there for each other and that's what matters. “And you didn't, Arthur,” Merlin assures him, “But I'm sorry, I...I never wanted to make you think you had, I just...I didn't know what else to do. She had to be sure I was dead and for that to happen...” he falters and Arthur can feel the tension locked in his muscles, in his bones but he doesn't pull away—Merlin needs him right now, “For that to happen, you had to, you know, believe it.”

And Arthur shivers. Because for that one moment he had believed it. His nightmares come to life in a way that will forever haunt him. Merlin dead by Arthur's dagger, dead because of Arthur's failure, dead by Arthur's hand. _Merlin dead_. And even now, Arthur knows he will never be able to forget the way he had frozen, locked in a scream; his body refusing to move in the face of such a sight, his mind unable to even truly comprehend such a horrific deed.

Merlin's arms tighten around him, “I'm so sorry, I know how hard it must have been, but it was all an illusion—like the way I hide the wounds except a bit more...complex, of course. Because, it wasn't me, not really—I mean it was my words and my actions controlling it, but it wasn't my body. And you didn't hurt me, Arthur. You didn't touch me and if you believe nothing else, please believe that, you didn't hurt me, Arthur.”

Arthur lifts his head and manages in a shaky voice, “I knew it wasn't real.”

“You did?” Merlin smiles then, all proud and tentative hope and Arthur can only nod in reply, “Of course you did, sometimes you're a lot smarter than I give you credit for.”

Arthur shakes his head, “No, I'm not,” he clears his throat and tries to gather his scattered thoughts, “I did believe for a moment.” A moment that will be seared into his memory and his nightmares for the rest of his life, “But then I didn't. Because I know you.”

“What?”

“You promised, Merlin.” Arthur answers and that explains it all really. But Merlin's frowning in confusion and apparently, he needs more, so Arthur continues, “You promised me everything was going to be alright. So you couldn't be dead.”

Merlin's eyes crinkle and his lips curve into that half smile he always has when he's confused but happy, “And that was enough for you?”

“Yes.” Arthur doesn't know how else to explain it, so he just repeats, “You _promised_ Merlin. And...” He looks down, anywhere but at Merlin and his ridiculous loyalty and finishes in a quiet voice, “I knew you wouldn't let me kill you,” Merlin opens his mouth to speak but Arthur just keeps talking, “you would never, ever let me live with that guilt. So you couldn't be dead.” He shrugs because really, that said it all, didn't it? 

And it doesn't matter to him that it doesn't make sense, not really, the fact that he knows Merlin would let Arthur kill him—indeed, already had by not stopping Arthur while Morgana controlled him—if he thought that it would help Arthur and yet would do whatever it took to save himself—not _for_ himself but rather for Arthur. And it didn't make sense and it was perhaps rather terrifying the way Merlin viewed him—as _worthy_ —but it didn't matter because Arthur viewed Merlin in the same way—as _worthy—_ and maybe it scared Merlin as much as Merlin's loyalty did him but none of that mattered.

What mattered was Merlin.

“Then you broke the enchantment.”

Merlin shifts and looks away, “Ah, well, not really. I was getting to that, but turns out I didn't need to,” Arthur raises his eyebrows in question. “You did that, all on your own.”

“How? I don't have magic.”

Merlin shrugs, “You don't have to; you just had to...” he shrugs again, “do whatever it is you did. But that was all you—it certainly wasn't Morgana's plan and I didn't have time to do anything yet.”

Arthur takes a moment to let that sink in then decides to put the matter aside for now; he has too many other things to think about to really try to figure out how he could have possibly done such a thing.

“Anyway, it worked. She was so caught up in her victory and it was just the distraction we needed,” Merlin continues at Arthur's nod, “Morgana was so confused, which was the whole plan, and then I knew—not that you knew what was going on but I knew you would do what needed done anyway and I wasn't going to let her touch you again. I was pretty certain she knew about our plan to trap her—but just as I couldn't not investigate Mordred, she couldn't resist coming to gloat. I knew I needed to keep her distracted and focused on me so you could come up behind her.”

Arthur shivers, suddenly realizing just how insane this whole thing had been. He had known all along that their original plan to draw Morgana out of hiding and poison her had never been the smartest or foolproof plan, but he realizes now that that alone would never have worked. Merlin had known and come up with something more, but it had been just as dangerous—perhaps more so because he was working more or less on his own. So many things could have gone wrong.

_But they hadn't._

“And you did,” Merlin says, oblivious to Arthur's distracted thoughts, “The poison and the magic on the dagger did the rest,” he sounds sorrowful and weary—as he does so often these days, and Arthur realizes that this here is the man behind the mask—and Arthur wants nothing more than to comfort him but he knows all too well the cost of protecting those he loves.

“You brought peace at last,” he says regardless of how little comfort Merlin will find in the words.

“ _We_ brought peace at last,” Merlin corrects sharply then immediately softens his voice, “But I was so late,” Merlin replies and he raises old, old eyes to Arthur's face. “Morgana was dead, and Mordred was dead, but you were dy—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. One of his hands releases Arthur's shirt to rub his neck, wipe his eyes, before he places it on Arthur's wrist where he can feel his heart beating strongly. “I'm sorry, I should have been there sooner, before you were so badly hurt.”

“I was dying,” Arthur whispers because this perhaps more than anything is what he doesn't understand; he knows his heart had beat it's last and his lungs had filled for the last time. He knows he had died.

Yet here he is.

“You were. You were fading and the entire land was crying out in sorrow and I was losing you!” Merlin takes in a shaky breath, “I could hear your heart stop, could see the blood stop running through your veins, I could feel you dying, Arthur.”

Merlin shakes his head suddenly, so forcefully his entire body quakes with it, “But I wasn't about to stand by and let you die! Not after everything, not while I still have breath in my own body, not ever!”

Silence falls in the room after this vehement statement. Merlin seems lost in a memory—and the thought of Arthur dying must be as horrible to him as the nightmare of Merlin's death to Arthur. He's never thought of it in terms like this, never fully allowed himself to imagine what his passing would do to others; how could he when he faced death so often? When he had to ride out and defeat the impossible day after day because that was his duty, because that was what was expected of him. Better to pretend that nobody would be that affected by his passing than to realize that his death would break the ones he loves.

“But I was dying,” Arthur finally repeats, to get away from his thoughts, to bring Merlin back to the present, to understand so they can move on.

Merlin starts away from his memory then nods, “You were. And I didn't know how to fix you, I didn't even know where to begin—you were bleeding everywhere and there was so much damage and you couldn't breathe. And I didn't have time to figure everything out, and I didn't have time to make a mistake, and I didn't have time because you were about to die! _I just didn't have time!”_ His hand clenches in Arthur's shirt, bunching it up and Arthur can feel the tension rising within him, coiling so tight he'll have to snap soon. Gently he brings up the hand Merlin isn't holding onto and rests it on Merlin's fist, reminding them both that he is still here, still alive. Merlin's hand slowly relaxes but the tension doesn't leave the rest of him.

“So?”

“I didn't have time so I made time stop,” Merlin declares simply, as if it should be obvious; as if he hasn't just said something so ridiculously powerful Arthur is quite certain even other sorcerers would be falling over themselves so as not to offend him.

“You made time stop,” Arthur repeats.

“Well, kind of. I mean I think I more tore us out of time, but it all comes down to the same thing,” Merlin tries to explain but really that just made it all the more confusing.

“What about...everyone else?” he asks hesitantly. Would he never see Gwen again, hold her in his arms and make her laugh and kiss her lips? And his knights, would he never get to train with them and enjoy their company again? His people, his kingdom whom he loves with all he is, what about them? Would Camelot even be standing still?

“They're fine,” Merlin assures him gently, “it's...it's complicated. I just I—I pulled us out of time, made it so no time could touch you and take you away from me. No time is passing here and so when we leave, when I put us back, it will be the same as when we left. Everyone will still be there right where they were. They won't even know anything has happened to us.”

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, tension draining from him as quickly as it had come. He didn't want to imagine what a life without the people he loves would be; he's already had to live out those nightmares too many times. “How did you even know how to do that?” he asks incredulously.

“I wasn't going to lose you, Arthur.” 

And Arthur knows then just how powerful, how loyal, how good Merlin is.

And how very, very fortunate he is that Merlin has chosen to follow him.

“Anyway,” Merlin shrugs again, “after that it was just a matter of fixing you.”

“Why aren't you better?” Arthur finally asks the question he both dreads and yet needs to know the answer. What if Merlin wasn't better because he _couldn't_ heal? What if Merlin was still dying? Would Arthur still lose him even after everything?

There's a hesitation while Merlin shifts awkwardly as if whatever he's going to say would make Arthur think any differently of him, then finally he mumbles quickly, the words slightly slurred together, “Keeping you alive took everything—I didn't have anything left to give myself.”

Arthur takes in a breath that does not fill his lungs. “Does that mean—?” He can't even finish the thought, not again, not so soon after seeing his body on the ground and blood surrounding him and a dagger resting in his heart—it was just an illusion, he reminds himself, just a horrible, _horrible_ nightmare.

Merlin looks up at him and frowns, “What?” he must find his answer in Arthur's silence because the frown disappears and a small smile replaces it, “No Arthur, I'm not going to die. I'll be fine.”

He hesitates again and seems to size Arthur up; it's become an oddly familiar feeling. Arthur has been tested by everyone his entire life, but Merlin has never looked at him the same way; never tested him as others have. And while he has always fallen short of other's expectations, Merlin seems to find him worthy—and while he does not understand why and he does not often agree, it has always brought comfort to him, that somebody believes in _him,_ believes in _Arthur_.

“And I should start actually healing now that Mordred is dead,” Merlin finishes wearily, “He let slip a few things while we were battling and his magic was too familiar—I've been fighting it for too long now not to recognize it.”

“You were fighting his magic? When?” Arthur bursts out and he wonders how much had been going on that he doesn't know, how many battles had Merlin fought while Arthur struggled to just get through the day?

“Well, not like you're thinking, more like...passive warfare.” Merlin tries to lighten the mood but Arthur is having none of it.

“Passive warfare? That's not a thing, Merlin.”

Merlin chuckles, “No?” he turns serious again immediately, “It was just...my magic was doing what it could, and you were tending to me but, as you know, it wasn't really working. I wasn't getting better—that was Mordred's doing, somehow he was blocking me and then my magic was focused on trying to get rid of the other magic so pretty much I was at a stalemate with everything.”

“But now you'll be okay?”

“We'll both be okay, Arthur,” Merlin promises and for the first time Arthur thinks he might just believe him.

* * *

It's not as simple as all that of course.

Arthur may have more answers to questions he had never even asked but there is still the matter of what to do now that it is after the battle.

After the war.

It's _after_ and Arthur finds he still has no idea what to do now than he did before.

But for now, Arthur doesn't ask any more questions; he doesn't worry about what will happen, how he will pick up the pieces of his shattered soul and try to put them back together again, how they will move on from this twisted nightmare.

For now, he just sits here while Merlin feels his heartbeat and counts his every breath and he lives.

* * *

“Merlin.”

Merlin looks up and nods, “Time to go?”

“If you're ready,” Arthur confirms. He's not sure how long they've stayed here, not sure how long it's been since he's woken up alive and healthy, not sure how long it's been since he wasn't.

“More than ready,” Merlin smiles crookedly and breathes a sigh of relief. He stands, stumbles slightly, holds out his hand to Arthur who doesn't hesitate to take it.

But he's not focused on standing on legs that don't shake, he barely notices the way his body responds quickly and easily to what he wants it to do, barely realizes that he doesn't even feel stiff as he stands for the first time in who knows how long.

He's thinking about Merlin's answer, so casual yet tinged with solemnity as if his words have far deeper meaning; about the way Merlin had said that time didn't pass here and while Arthur believed him that didn't mean that they didn't still _feel_ time passing; about how it felt like Arthur had slept for ages and ages.

He's thinking about how old Merlin looks; not in body because time hadn't touched it, but in his eyes, in his soul, in his words.

He's thinking about the way Merlin had said his name when Arthur had opened his eyes; his friend’s voice had been filled with such relief that Arthur had compared it to some of his darkest memories.

_How long?_ Arthur almost opens his mouth to ask the words, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he's afraid Merlin will tell him an impossibly long time; he doesn't because he's afraid Merlin will answer not with a time, not with a lie but with silence that speaks far more than any words he could give. _H_ _ow long did you wait for me, Merlin?_

But he doesn't ask.

He doesn't need to know everything; he trusts Merlin and that is enough.

“Let's go home, Merlin,” he says instead and Merlin's answering smile is blinding.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

For all that they have been through it is the first time Arthur stands by Merlin's side as he performs magic freely—not to heal Arthur, not to save Arthur, just magic with Arthur by his side.

He doesn't know what he expects. Golden eyes that haunt his nightmares and hissing words that shadow his waking hours perhaps. But there's only a brief moment where Merlin's eyes shine to gold—and they are not bright with greed and power but shining with promise and loyalty—and the room loses its dreamlike quality to become nothing more than a vacant room in Arthur's home.

The first thing he notices is that there is no sign of Merlin's illusion—no body, no blood, no sign that there had ever been such a terrifying sight.

The second thing he sees is Morgana's body—her corpse lies just where she had fallen, blood pooling around her, eyes vacant. The dagger still resides in her heart.

Arthur stares at her for a long, long time.

“What will we tell them?” He finally asks though his voice is hoarse, and he cannot tear his eyes away from his sister. His sister who is dead. He can’t wrap his head around it, not really. It’s like losing his father all over again. 

Merlin is silent behind him; and how many times has Arthur taken advantage of that—his silent shadow—and how many people have lived to regret never realizing who walked behind him? “I don't know,” Merlin answers softly, “perhaps it depends on what they remember.”

Arthur nods: for all the times he has wished to confess his sins to the people he loves he does not relish the prospect of voicing this tale now.

“Let's go,” he turns away from Morgana for the last time and turns back to Merlin.

* * *

As they make their way to the council room, Merlin explains why he had to put them all to sleep one by one after breaking Morgana's enchantment with terms that Arthur only vaguely understands. The how and why don't matter to him, not as much as the rise and fall of Merlin's voice. He falls silent as they open the doors.

For all that Arthur trusts Merlin it is still terrifying to look upon that room where everyone lies on the ground, eyes closed, still as can be.

They wake Gwen up first.

She doesn't remember anything.

Arthur doesn't know whether to scream or weep. He gathers her in his arms and holds her close because it's Guinevere—his Guinevere who gives compassion and wisdom and love and kindness without even trying; it's his wife and he loves her. He holds onto her and when she eventually pulls away from him but only enough so she can look at him he just smiles at her.

“What happened?” She asks and there is worry in her eyes and her voice is weak but for the moment he cannot bring himself to care about anything but the woman in his arms.

“Morgana,” he answers finally and says nothing about what she did, what she made Gwen do, what she made her say. Says nothing about the wounds—scars now that he carries through her hands.

While Arthur buries himself in his wife, Merlin wakes the others up slowly, carefully, silently.

Nobody remembers anything.

Arthur doesn't let that bother him, not right now; they can deal with answers later. Right now, he wants only to comfort himself in the knowledge that his people are safe and alive.

* * *

“It's over,” Arthur eventually says, and the truth of the words astound even him.

It _was_ over. The war they had been fighting for years has finally come to an end. There would be more battles of course; someone else would crop up to fight Camelot but for now, this war was over. There would be no high priestess lashing out in anger and sending spies and poisoning his kingdom and killing his people. There is finally peace.

Arthur has forgotten what that felt like.

He expects a chaos of questions and demands of reports and a roaring cacophony of noise; he gets nothing but almost silent shuffling.

Nobody asks what happened, nobody wonders why they woke up without memory, they do not question Arthur's declaration of peace. They stand up stiffly, get their wounds tended to by Merlin, and when Merlin suggests bed rest for all, they simply follow his suggestion quickly as if they had only been hoping someone would let them sleep.

He wonders why, wonders if maybe this isn't really over, wonders if there could be an enchantment on them even now that Morgana is dead.

After they close the door to his room, leaving his wife sleeping behind them, he brings this fear to Merlin, but his friend only shakes his head. “You didn't remember either that first time—at least not at first. I think it has to do with how much force she had to put in the enchantment itself; the more things went against your character the harder you fought without even realizing. Between all that and her magic it's expected that there would be side effects.”

“But I remembered eventually.” Not soon enough. He wishes he didn't remember even now.

Merlin rolls his shoulders back, stretching carefully with a wince he can't quite hide but his voice is steady as he answers, “Yeah, but you were different, Arthur. Not only did you break the enchantments, but you had something to keep reminding you that something was wrong. You had me. They don't.”

“So they'll never remember?”

“I don't know. I imagine it will all be like a nightmare they don't really want to think about. They might remember flashes but not much else—I think, I can't be sure of any of this, Arthur,” He stops suddenly and leans against the wall, “I guess, if you tell them though they'll probably remember more. It's up to you—” Merlin cuts off with a gasp; he squeezes his eyes closed and leans his head against the cold stone.

Arthur closes the distance between them, “Merlin?” he calls worriedly. His hand hovers awkwardly between them; he wants to help but he doesn't know how and he's so afraid of hurting Merlin even more than he already has.

What had Merlin said? _“Keeping you alive took everything—I didn't have anything left.”_ How literally had Merlin meant that? Stupid of him to allow himself to be distracted from all the wounds that Merlin still had. Stupid of him to forget that though he couldn't see them, Merlin's body was still riddled with fatal injuries. Stupid, _stupid_ of him to forget that Merlin was still dying no matter how fine he said he would be.

“I'll be fine, Arthur,” he murmurs but his voice is shaky, and he doesn't even try to open his eyes and look at Arthur which is altogether not a convincing argument. “Just give me a moment.”

“I'll go get Gaius,” Arthur promises and the words hold a bittersweet relief for him. Finally, _finally_ he can get help for Merlin—help far more worthy than his own two hands and limited knowledge and damning guilt. Finally, someone else will know how unworthy he really is of the crown, the people's respect, Merlin's loyalty. “I'll be back.”

“No!” Merlin yells and jerks towards him, his hand grasping Arthur's shirt with far less strength than he had displayed before, “No, Arthur, please don't!”

Arthur freezes; struck by Merlin's desperate pleading and his trembling hand. “But you need help, Merlin.”

Merlin shakes his head, winces, and bites back a growl, “Please?”

And Arthur can't say no to him, not now after everything that's happened, not after Merlin has brought peace and saved Arthur and all his kingdom, not after Arthur has brought this pain and this terror on him, not after everything Merlin has done for him regardless of how Arthur has treated him.

Gently he slides Merlin to the ground. And Merlin's thin, so much thinner than he should be and he's shaking all over and he's cold, so cold. And Arthur is scared, so scared but he doesn't know what to do.

He's never known what to do with Merlin.

“Merlin please?” Arthur whispers, begs for permission, pleads for Merlin to stay with him. He cannot lose Merlin. Not before, not now, not ever. “Please?”

Merlin draws in a ragged breath and somehow, somehow finds the strength to raise his head and look straight into Arthur's eyes—into his very soul, it seems, “Arthur, this...” his voice is thin and he stops to cough for a moment before going on in a stronger voice, “Arthur, I don't want anyone else to know. It's none of their business—this is between us. Just you and I.” He pauses to cough, again, but he doesn't stop, and Arthur doesn't interrupt. “It's just what happened, it happened, Arthur. That's it.”

“I don't know how you can say that,” Arthur says in a small voice.

“Arthur,” Merlin replies in a hard voice, “Morgana hurt me but I'm alive and I'll be okay with a little bit of time. And it was _Morgana_ who hurt me. I know that and you should accept that as well,” he sighs and shakes his head; he seems to choose his next words carefully, “Do you blame Gwen for this?” He asks as he gestures to Arthur's hand where there was a small, round scar. It takes him a moment to realize it was from when she had pinned him to the table before Arthur had realized that the end was there.

“No!” he counters viciously because of course he doesn't blame Guinevere for something that hadn't been in her power to stop, “Of course I don't, it wasn't her!”

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him, and Arthur snaps his mouth shut. “You're right, it wasn't her.”

“It's not the same,” Arthur says but he can't explain why it's different.

“It is. It's the same as you not wanting Percival to take the blame for something he didn't do after your little 'training accident'. It's the same as you not blaming Gwaine for almost killing you or Leon or Gaius or George or any one of them. It wasn't them. And it wasn't you who hurt me.”

Arthur lets the words sink in, but he knows he won't ever really let go of this guilt, ever be able to absolve his hands of the blood stained on them.

“Arthur, I was hurt but that's all over now. I've moved past it and you should too.”

“They should still know,” Arthur declares softly and he's not sure if he's talking about his own sins or Merlin's sacrifices throughout the years.

“Why?” Merlin asks and there's curiosity in his voice, “Why does it matter to you so much that they know?”

“I'm afraid,” Arthur answers honestly. Merlin starts back and opens his mouth, but Arthur talks over him, “I'm afraid that if they don't know then this will happen again.” And maybe there's no logic in that fear but Arthur's life has never travelled a logical path. And he absolutely does not want this—or anything like this to ever happen again. Not to Merlin, not to anyone. “Why don't you want them to know about you?” And again, Arthur doesn't know exactly what he's asking; he wonders if Merlin does.

Merlin is quiet for a long moment; his body is still shaking and he's still so pale and he still looks like he is about to pass out at any moment but he hasn't given permission and Arthur won't go behind his back even if it is to save his life. He'd given his word and Arthur can't betray that no matter how badly he wants to, how much he needs to.

“Because I don't want them to feel guilty,” Merlin finally answers, “I just want them to be safe and happy and knowing about me isn't going to help that.”

Arthur can't decide if Merlin is talking about his health or his magic either but he's not sure it matters.

“I want us all to move on, Arthur. And I don't think that they need to know, and I don't think we need to complicate matters further by telling them. I just...I think it's time to put this whole matter where it belongs, behind us.”

They sit there in silence for a while, staring at each other, at the wounds they have carried for so long and yet no time at all, thinking of what the other has said.

It's Merlin who breaks the silence—he's always doing that, it seems—with a promise full of such meaning it scares Arthur, “If you want to tell them Arthur, I'll stand by your choice.”

And Arthur knows then he's not just talking about the wounds that cover his body, not just the events of the past months, not just talking about Mordred's betrayal and death. He's talking about everything.

About the magic he possesses.

About the sacrifices he has made for Camelot and Arthur.

About the scars he has attained in service to his king.

He's talking about telling them _everything_ and it's not because he wants to; it's because he believes in Arthur and if Arthur wants to tell, then he would spill his secrets as if they weren't his to keep, as if he didn't have a right to choose what to say or what to stay silent about.

And Arthur knows then, that no matter how much he wants Gaius to tend to Merlin's hurts and make him better; no matter how much he desires Gwaine's anger and Leon's disappointment and Gwen's horror; no matter how much he thinks he deserves to be punished for what his hands have done, he knows he won't tell them.

Not now at least, not for his own benefit and not even for Merlin's health. These are Merlin's words, his secrets, his life story.

And Arthur will not order it to be told by force.

One day, when Merlin is ready, when he wants to then Arthur will stand by his side and listen.

One day but not today.

“You still need help,” Arthur tells him and hopes Merlin understands all that he means in those few words.

Merlin smiles crookedly and nods.

* * *

Eventually, Merlin gathers his strength to stand and Arthur draws on his mask of courage to face the next part of the day.

Facing Morgana's cold, dead body is no easier this time around than it was before.

* * *

“ _So I did what I had to and in the end I was the only one left standing.”_ Merlin had told him, and Arthur had been far more focused on comforting him then he had on wondering what exactly those words meant.

He knows now as he surveys the battlefield while Merlin stands a few steps behind him.

“ _I did what I had to—_ ” And how many other times had Merlin done this; fought a battle and was the only one left standing, the victor but at such a cost; then come home, come up from the tunnels, walked through the citadel's gates and never let a single word fall from his lips of the devastation he has wrought on others and the blood on his hands?

Battlefield is the only way to describe the carnage in front of him. His eyes slide away from the remains of the monstrous creatures and find what is left of Mordred's body.

Arthur looks at it for a long time before he turns his back.

Merlin watches him with something akin to wariness and something that is most definitely sorrow.

“He'll be stripped of his title,” Arthur declares without regret. It isn't enough, not nearly enough to assuage his fury at the druid but it is all Arthur has left to him so he will do it. Camelot will know of Mordred's deception and Merlin's loyalty.

The wariness disappears from Merlin's face, but the sorrow stays long in his eyes.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Merlin, as far as Arthur can tell, doesn't tell Gaius but he does get the worst of his wounds treated by him. Whether he explains it away with a few words about the battle with Mordred or perhaps Morgana or an outright lie or only silence, Arthur doesn't ask. All that matters is that Merlin is finally getting help. 

Every night though, Merlin lets the illusion fall and Arthur tends to the rest of them. It is both heartbreaking and strangely cathartic for him.

Perhaps it is a comfort for them both.

* * *

He trusts Merlin but he still has trouble wrapping his mind around how nobody asks _anything._ Not about Morgana and what she had done and her death; not about Merlin and the wounds they could see; not about Mordred's death. _Nothing._ They accept the explanation Arthur gives them, “Morgana,” without curiosity.

“Mordred was working with Morgana.” he told them and that at least got reactions—anger and betrayal and disappointment and—and still, no questions. No one asks what he knew, what he said, what he did, how he died. 

It bothers Arthur more than he wants to admit. He wants them to be happy, he wants them to feel safe, he wants them to be okay. But he doesn't want to lie to them, to deny them the truth, to give them a reason to mistrust him.

He doesn't want them to feel guilty. But he can't bring himself to tell them.

In the end he leaves it up to them; if they ever look at him and ask, he will give them the truth, he will trust them with everything and face the consequences of guilt—theirs and his own. Until then, he will let them live in what peace they can find.

* * *

Peace isn't easy to find.

He catches odd looks and worried frowns and confused mutterings from his people, but nobody ever asks.

Gwen spends a whole evening staring at the scar on his hand—it runs all the way through to the other side, a jagged reminder of what had happened. She'll reach out to almost touch him but always, always she will pull back. Arthur is tense, trying to order the words in the right way when she inevitably asks about it and he's scared but of what, he's not sure; perhaps the truth after all this time.

She doesn't ask but she doesn't stop staring at it, her eyes trace it again and again and he wonders if she remembers the way the knife had so easily cut through his bones and muscle and skin; wonders if she can recall the sickening thud of the knife finding the table; wonders if his surprised cry of pain echoes in her ears.

He wonders if she can remember it as clearly as he remembers shedding Merlin's blood.

He doesn't know how to help her, how to tame the questions she can't face, how to absolve her of the guilt she can't possibly understand. But he cannot just leave her like this, always almost remembering, always uncertain, always scared for no discernible reason, always guilty.

“Guinevere,” he whispers and even after all this time there is still something about her name, about being able to say her name that touches him in a way he can never describe. The way her name brings him strength and reminds him of all the good that this world has within it and brings him hope. The way he can never just say her name like it isn't one of the most important possessions he's been gifted with, the way he can't hide how much he loves her, and how very much he needs her in just one word.

She looks up at him, her hair falling into her face now that she's let it down for the night, her eyes dark. He's seen a lot in his life, travelled through many different lands, and dined with royalty but he has never seen anything or anyone as beautiful as she is.

“Guinevere,” he says again, and he hopes he never gets tired of those syllables falling from his lips into the waiting silence. Gently he takes his hand, the one that she can't stop staring at, and brushes it across her face.

She leans into his touch, relaxes into his hand regardless of the scar that will forever mark his skin, and enfolds herself into him. It's enough.

Gwaine won't touch him with his right hand.

It takes Arthur a while to notice but when he does it's there in every action. Gwaine pretty much avoids touching him at all but when he has too, it's never with the hand that had pounded into Arthur's chest, that had broken his bones, that had stolen all of Arthur's breath away, that had almost delivered the killing blow.

He laughs and jokes and acts like the rogue he pretends to be, but Arthur can see the seriousness in his eyes, can hear the false note in his voice, can hear the catch in his laugh.

As soon as he realizes Arthur goes to him after training but as always, the right words fail to come to him. So instead, he just laughs and tells the knight good job and then he grabs his right hand and shakes it firmly and with determination. And he hopes that Gwaine understands what he's saying; that Arthur has forgiven him and that he holds no grudge against him, hopes he knows that Arthur doesn't fear him.

Percival catches Arthur before he can fall but releases his arm as if burned. It takes Arthur a week before he can work in a 'casual' hug and it takes Percival a long moment before he relaxes tense muscles to return it.

Leon won’t look him in the eye until Arthur draws him aside several times and asks for advice and eventually his First Knight finally relaxes in his presence and finally looks at him. The lords, Gaius, the servants, every one of them has an issue and Arthur doesn't know what to do to make it better but he does all he can and hopes that it will be enough to stave off their nightmares.

Arthur doesn't have the words to heal them, but he has always let actions stand as his voice and he loves them all enough to do whatever they need of him.

* * *

“What are we doing?” Merlin asks, familiar curiosity coating his voice even as he follows diligently by Arthur's side.

Arthur doesn't answer; he's breathing too fast and not deep enough, but he can't help himself. He is scared, so, so scared of what he is about to do but he knows it's time.

It's time to let go.

It's dark and the moon is only half-full but the torches in their hands light up enough for them to see. It doesn't take long to reach the clearing; it's just a regular clearing to most people, probably even for Merlin but for Arthur it's far more than that.

It's the clearing where his father first told him he was proud of him, the clearing where he once sparred with Morgana, the clearing where he let himself kiss Guinevere. It's the place that represents times in Arthur's life where he was happy and loved and with the people he loves.

It signifies hope and life to Arthur and for that reason, he has brought Merlin here.

He drops the wood he had collected as they traveled, and his servant does the same though with far more noise.

“Merlin, will you start a fire?” he asks and his voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

“Uh, sure,” Merlin answers, watching him carefully. He doesn't ask any more questions though and Arthur is grateful because he doesn't yet know the words he wants to say—he needs to say. Merlin gathers the wood and pulls out a flint—

“Not that way,” Arthur interrupts and the words surprise even him, but they feel right. Merlin frowns up at him and opens his mouth but Arthur surprises them both by asking, “Merlin, will you use your magic?”

It's the first time he's spoken the word aloud without stumbling over it, without even pausing in shock and confusion in his own mind.

Merlin looks at him for a moment then he grins and replies, “Yes, Sire.” And his eyes are gold and flames leap up into the night, but they are contained within the fire pit and Arthur feels no fear when he looks at them.

“They have to be hot,” he says and for the first time he sees the flaw in his plan, but then he looks at Merlin, the gold just now fading from his eyes and he knows all he has to do is ask.

“Well, fire tends to be pretty hot without any help from me, you know?” Merlin jokes and Arthur can't help but crack a smile.

“Hot enough to melt metal?”

“Melt metal? What exactly are you planning on doing, Arthur?” Merlin yelps incredulously.

Arthur's mouth is dry, and his breath comes in short gasps and his hand is trembling as he reaches inside his pack and draws out the dagger.

The dagger that ended his sister's life.

The dagger that tortured Merlin and almost took him from Arthur.

His hand burns where he touches it, but he doesn't let it go.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, standing up abruptly, the smile dropping from his face to be replaced with confusion, “why?”

Arthur looks at the weapon in his hands with pure hatred; at the blade that had inflicted so much damage, at the gleaming metal that had brought so much pain, at the dagger that represented everything Arthur could have lost. 

It's not the dagger that's at fault but Arthur will never be able to look at it and see anything but Merlin's blood running down the blade, never be able to hold it in his hands and not feel it slicing through his friend's life, never be able to remember it as anything other than the weapon that had drawn out Merlin's cries of pain.

It's not Arthur that's at fault. It had been his hands that had wielded the weapon and he will never be able to undo that, never be able to erase these memories away, never be able to fully wash himself of the blood. It had been his hands, but it hadn't been his mind, hadn't been his thoughts, hadn't been his actions; it hadn't been _Arthur_.

It's not the dagger's fault.

And it's not Arthur's fault.

And if he wants to bring peace to himself and to his kingdom, he needs to let it go. This all-consuming guilt that keeps him awake at night, this terror that haunts his every step, this dagger that only reminds him of pain and betrayal.

“It's time to let it all go,” he answers.

“But your father gave it to you,” Merlin argues but he looks uncertain, “You...you love that dagger.”

“I did,” Arthur nods in agreement, “but not anymore.”

“Arthur—”

“I need to do this, Merlin,” and that effectively quiets his servant. “And I need...I want you to be here with me.”

Because he needs Merlin to see Arthur destroying the very weapon that had hurt him. He needs Merlin to know he's safe with Arthur—and Arthur knows, he really does, that Merlin doesn't need this, doesn't look at Arthur in fear even with the dagger in his hands, but Arthur still needs to do this where Merlin can see.

Maybe it didn't make sense but then again very few things made sense when it came to Arthur and Merlin.

“Will you stay with me, Merlin?” And these aren't the words he meant to say, aren't the words that he's been rehearsing in his mind, but they are the words that, perhaps, matter the most.

“Of course, I'll stay,” Merlin replies without hesitation but that doesn't lessen the sincerity written in every line of his body, “I'll always stay, Arthur.”

And Arthur was wrong because these words are the ones that matter the most, the promise that he needs to hear, the vow he needs to believe. And he does.

Merlin doesn't say anything else, but he stands next to Arthur as he throws the dagger into the fire and his eyes burn as bright as the flames as it destroys the weapon Arthur fears the most.

They stand side by side as the dagger melts into nothing but painful memories of a time that will, eventually, fade into the past.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“I have to lift the ban on magic,” he realizes one day and doesn't realize he's said the words out loud until Merlin drops the basket of dirty laundry with a loud thump, gaping at Arthur. “I'll have to find a way to tell the people why and convince everyone I'm not enchanted and let our allies know and send announcements and—” Arthur stops because it all sounds rather overwhelming and he has absolutely no idea where to even begin.

He has no idea how he will ever begin to atone for the deaths the ban has caused.

“No,” Merlin says and with that one word Arthur feels his world once again churning underneath him.

“What?”

“Arthur,” but he hesitates or perhaps he doesn't know what he's going to say next. Arthur waits because so often he hasn't waited to listen to Merlin's advice, and he hopes to change that so he waits now even though he's impatient to understand. “Arthur, don't raise the ban because of me.”

“Aren't you reason enough?”

Merlin shakes his head vehemently, “No, I'm not and I'm not being self-deprecating or anything like that, I'm serious Arthur. If you want to change the laws, it should be because _you_ believe that it's wrong. You accept me, Arthur, even with magic but that doesn't mean your entire view on sorcery has changed.”

Arthur swallows and looks away. He understands what Merlin is saying; he knows he has to choose what he himself believes before he can even start to change the way his kingdom is run. And if he doesn't believe in the new laws then the people will see no reason to follow them.

And nothing would change.

“And...” Merlin sighs heavily, “Arthur, you tend to overcompensate.” Arthur frowns not in anger but in thought—Merlin has never listed this as one of his faults before, “If you decide that the way the law is now is wrong then you'll change everything, too fast and too soon and...and in the end it will just be a different kind of wrong.”

That also made a certain kind of sense; all those things Arthur was listing as things he needed to do seemed to prove that point.

“Just...I think you need to figure out what you believe before you do anything. Figure it out for yourself—you deserve that much—and for your people,” Merlin finishes.

“But don't you want to be free?” Arthur whispers sadly.

“I _am_ free,” Merlin replies firmly. And Arthur looks at him, really looks at him. He's still too thin and too pale; the gash across his face has faded to a vivid scar, there are marks around his wrists from chains, and underneath his clothes are still wounds that haven't yet scarred over and there are lies forever written into his skin.

But. 

But he stands tall and that confidence that used to appear only when Arthur least expected it is there all the time now and wisdom shines from his eyes and there's a small smile resting on his face.

He looks happy.

He looks safe.

He looks like he's alright.

“You know and accept me, Arthur, and that's freedom enough for me,” Merlin says in the same tone of voice he uses to call Arthur a prat, to tease him about his weight, to remind him that he's late for a council meeting. It's the same tone Arthur has gotten used to hearing day after day, a sign that things are fine, a reminder that Arthur is human.

And that's what gets to Arthur the most; the words are heavy with trust and promise but the tone, the voice is simply Merlin—not a servant, not a sorcerer, just Merlin.

So he nods. He will have to examine his beliefs and decide what is right for his kingdom but Merlin's correct, he must do it the right way.

But one day, he hopes, Merlin will be free for everyone to see.

* * *

Merlin heals.

The scars will never leave him just as the nightmares will never leave Arthur. They are both forever tainted by what Morgana did, but life goes on.

Arthur always sees Merlin, scars and all; he never asks how but he doesn't have to.

Merlin talks to Arthur often about so much; he answers questions Arthur is hesitant to ask; he shares tales almost impossible to believe but Arthur has no trouble wrapping his mind around them. There is still a lot left unsaid; secrets left unspoken and unasked for, stories too painful to relive and ears too heavy to hear. But it's enough. 

It's enough to soothe the nightmares, to calm the fears, to tame the doubts. 

It's more than enough.

* * *

His kingdom heals and in so doing his people relieve the pain deep in his soul. It's still there, he'll never be rid of it completely. But Gwen's gentle smile drives it away and Leon's steady steps behind him covers it and Gwaine's completely made up stories makes him laugh it away and Percival's arm across his shoulders pushes it away and Gaius' calm voice distances it and Geoffrey's proud nod of approval makes him forget about it for a moment and George's ridiculous jokes that aren't funny in the least distract him.

His people will never realize, will never understand just how much Arthur needs them but they are there for him all the same and for that he can only be grateful.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Merlin stands awkwardly in front of him, squirming with his hands behind his back, his face an odd assortment of nerves and shy hope. Arthur stares at him suspiciously, it never bodes well for him when Merlin is nervous in front of him.

“Merlin, didn't you say you were done for the night?” Arthur asks because Merlin is still just standing there silently.

“With work, yeah,” he answers and even his voice sounds odd, “but I kind of wanted to just, you know, talk for a bit, see how you are.” It sounded normal and it sounded fine, but Arthur has been fooled by Merlin's innocence before.

“Merlin, you're with me pretty much all day,” he points out.

“Yeah, but now we're alone and I'm not here to serve you—unless you need me to because you still have no idea how to do the simplest of things,” Merlin banters and it's good to hear. Good to see that mischievous look in his eyes and hear the laughter in his voice.

This, this is who Arthur had almost lost.

“I can but why should I when I have you to do them?” he counters and it doesn't matter that they've had this conversation almost word for word so many times throughout the years, not in the least, it still brings peace to his soul and a smile that he can't quite hide.

“Well—that doesn't matter,” Merlin steps further in the room but he keeps his hands hidden behind his back. He was hiding something and not doing a good job of it—and he could have, Arthur knows, but he didn't. It seemed an important distinction to Arthur that Merlin didn't try to really hide things from him anymore; Merlin had told him he was free and he liked to act that way, liked that there were no personal secrets waiting to devour them. “So, how are you?”

A question that Arthur has stopped asking himself because he doesn't know the answer. There are days when he gets through everything just fine and he smiles freely, and he sees only the people he loves. Days when he looks in a mirror and sees only himself.

But there are still days when he struggles to breathe the entire day, when he looks at his people and wonders when he will fail them, who will betray him next. When he looks in a mirror and sees only blood spilling off him.

And he doesn't know what all that makes him.

“I'm trying,” is all he can say.

Merlin nods: the nervous anticipation disappears, and he changes the subject by asking what he plans on doing for Guinevere's birthday. Eventually he smiles and says good night and leaves without once showing Arthur what was behind his back. 

Arthur stares after him for a long time then shakes his head. Even after all the truths he has come to learn about his friend, Merlin is still a mystery to him.

* * *

Arthur stands in front of the fire, a smile on his face. It had been a good day. The council had nothing to complain about, he'd enjoyed a relaxing training session with his knights, a village child had shyly thanked him and pressed a crumpled flower in his hand, Gwen's goodnight kiss still lingered on his lips.

It had been a very good day.

“Arthur?” He turns to look at Merlin who has finally regained what little color and weight he had before this whole mess.

“Merlin,” he greets, unsurprised to see him; Merlin seems to always be near him no matter the time of day or how many times Arthur thinks he's gone for the night. Not that he gets very far, Merlin seems to have appropriated the antechamber for his own uses even though they no longer use it to tend to his wounds. Arthur doesn't mind the closeness even if it does surprise him though he doesn't dwell on it.

He has a feeling it has something to do with that period of time when Merlin watched his every breath and waited for him to wake up. He thinks that time is why sometimes he'll catch Merlin just staring at him intently without even blinking and counting underneath his breath; it had taken Arthur a long time to realize he was counting every breath that Arthur breathed in. He thinks that's why sometimes when Merlin helps him dress or take off his armor, Merlin's hand will linger on his neck or his wrist and for just a moment he will close his eyes and release a breath that speaks of nightmares that are still too real.

That time they don't talk about. Ever.

Merlin looks at him with _that_ look, the one that says he's searching for something specific—though Arthur has never known what, the one that always leads to something meaningful. He must find whatever it is because he nods and says, “I have something for you.”

“For me? Wh—”

And Merlin pulls out a dagger. It's simple yet the weapon seems to resonate with power. The blade gleams in the firelight.

“I know it's not much—it took me a long time to figure out how to do it and Kilgarrah really wasn't much help but...” Merlin trails off nervously.

“You made this?” The words are hard to get past the lump in his throat. “For—for me?”

Merlin takes a breath then lets it out in a quiet chuckle. The hand that doesn't hold the weapon comes up to rub his neck even while he ducks his head and mumbles, “Yeah.”

Arthur can't breathe.

“I know it's not really the best, but...I just...I want you to have it,” Merlin explains, “I mean, if you want it—you don't have to take it, of course you don't. I mean—do you? Want it?”

Arthur hasn't touched a dagger since he threw his old one into that fire created by Merlin's magic. But he still dreams of that dagger, of his hands holding it, of the chaos they had created together.

But...Arthur trusts Merlin. And Merlin thinks he's ready.

“Merlin,” he finds himself saying and his voice is thick with emotion, “thank you.”

And Arthur takes the dagger from him.

He's not surprised when the balance is perfect and his hand fits around the hilt like it was made for him but then of course, it _was_ made for him—and only him, he understands instinctually.

The dagger doesn't burn his hands and he doesn't have the strongest urge to throw it out of sight.

Merlin just watches him as he tests out the blade, a small smile on his face, and that pride shining in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Arthur says again and he knows he's not just talking about the gift that Merlin must have spent ages making for him and he's not just talking about Merlin believing in him and protecting him with his magic; he's thanking him for being who he is, for being there, for always being there for Arthur.

“Anything for you, Arthur,” Merlin replies softly but his smile only grows bigger.

They stay there for a while in silence before Arthur looks up at him again, “Ask me again, Merlin.”

Merlin frowns for a moment, then, like Arthur knew would happen he says, “How are you, Arthur?”

Arthur may never know who he really is, and he may never truly forgive himself; but his kingdom is safe and he has a wife he loves with all his heart and friends to help carry the heavy burdens in life.

But he still has a friend who laughs at him and knows he's not perfect yet believes in him all the same and would willingly lay down his life a thousand times over if it meant Arthur still breathed. He has a dagger made by the most loyal and brave man he has ever met.

He still has Merlin.

Arthur takes a deep breath that fills his lungs, his chest, his heart up with air that is clear and sweet and _filling_. And when he answers he stares at Merlin standing in front of him without fear and his voice doesn't shake as Arthur answers with absolute truth, “I'm alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the end at last! Thank you to all who have come on this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed it! And a huge thank you to all who have reviewed-they mean a lot to me!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, that's all I can really say...


End file.
